Huntingbird: An A to Z of snapshot moments
by daisiesinajar
Summary: A collection of Huntingbird shorts based on random dictionary entries. May have multiple stories for each entry. Prompts very welcome.
1. willpower, n

**willpower**, _noun_

Somebody asks a question, something about them acting strangely.

They are standing next to each other, an arm's length apart. Together, but not. They shuffle their feet and make vague noises and look away. When it's clear that an answer is expected, Lance clears his throat several times.

"We uh," he folds his arms, "Uh."

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, "We're not..." and unfolds his arms, runs a hand through his buzz cut and folds his arms again.

The asker raises a brow questioningly. "You what? Spit it out Hunter."

Lance doesn't look at Bobbi, just shuffles his feet some more and looks everywhere but at her.

It's apparent he's not going to get the words out, so it's up to her, then.

"We're uh," it's Bobbi's turn to clear her throat, "We're no longer..."

She hunts for a suitably neutral word. "...partners," she settles. "We're no longer partners." Her arms cross in front of her, as if to protect herself against her own words. She nods once, resolute.

Lance edges away slightly, fingers tightening on his own folded arms, as if he could hug himself better.

The asker stares for a moment, uncomprehending, then realisation clicks in her eyes, and she mutters an apology and looks away and they start a shuffle dance, the three of them.

If Lance had looked more closely (or even just _looked_), he would have seen the rim of Bobbi's eyes turn red from the burn of tears that only didn't fall due to sheer willpower. He would have seen her square her jaw, to stop it from trembling. He would have seen her clutch her arms, not unlike what he was doing, to stop them from shaking. He would have seen-

But it made no matter, now.

If.

* * *

**A/N: **This was inspired by The Lover's Dictionary by David Levithan and the random (and often angsty) short interactions between Hunter and Bobbi that pop up in my head from time to time.

Suggestions for other dictionary entries (and thus, shorts) are welcome.


	2. fear, n v

**fear**, _noun; verb_

If he's honest with himself (and he sometimes is, when he's had enough to drink), Lance knows he's a coward. He's pretty sure everyone thinks so too— they're just too polite to say so out loud.

Everyone except Bob, anyway. She just came right out and said it. It was one of the things he loved about her, that she always called him on his bullshit. And she was right, he thought, as he stumbled down the hallway, leaning against the wall for support.

He was a coward.

Tonight, though, was the first time she had ever said—no, _yelled_ it.

She didn't say it all those nights he had jack-knifed up in bed, heart pounding out of his chest and mind a thousand miles away in the dust and dirt and blood of his friends lying wide-eyed, slack-jawed around him; not when he had grabbed her wrist when she had gone to turn out the bedside lamps and left finger-shaped bruises that he was so ashamed of in the morning—and still was, actually; not the time he had tackled her to the ground in a blind panic when she had given him a gentle hug from the back and was this close to landing a punch.

No, each time the nightmares had caught up with him, she had been patient with him, had held his hand tightly until the episode had passed, had soothed him with soft words and quiet lullabies until he'd returned to himself. She had always been there for him, when she could, no matter how exhausted she was or how many horrors she had seen herself.

He tightened his grip on the paper wrapping and turned the corner, trying not to trip on his feet.

He would go see that therapist, he decided, if it meant she would love him again—if it meant she wouldn't leave him. He saw enough nightmares on his own at night, didn't see the point in reliving them in the daytime either, but if it meant she would rest easier in the hopes he would get better—he owed her that much, didn't he?

He straightened up in front of a familiar door, shaky on his feet, flowers clutched in his sweaty palm.

_Was this too little? Too late?_

She had been there for him, every step of the way. If he was honest with himself, and he had certainly drunk enough to be so, he was afraid that she would leave him: he wasn't sure he knew who he was without her anymore—and he wasn't sure he wanted, or dared, to find out.

_Coward_.

He had never been so afraid to lose someone in his life.

He knocked, and the door swung open almost immediately, like she had been expecting him. He wouldn't have put it past her—she had always known him better than he had known himself.

Lance offered up the flowers, a bouquet of apologies and regrets rolled up in brown paper.

Bobbi glanced from him to his proffered hand and touched her fingers to the bouquet. One side of her mouth tilted up.

"Hunter, those flowers are dead," she deadpanned.

Lance blinked and looked at the droopy stems. He hadn't realised. Before he could panic and worry if this was it, if this was the end, if the flowers symbolised their relationship—gentle hands took his and led him through the door into their home_._

* * *

**A/n: **Based on a suggestion by La Madone, "fear".

Thanks for the suggestions, keep them coming! :)

I'd like to clarify that I'm not saying I think Hunter is a coward; I'm saying he thinks he is. I'm not saying Bobbi thinks he is, either (and I think she doesn't), I'm saying he thinks she does. :)


	3. osculate, v

**osculate**, _verb_

It was the fourth (or was it the fifth? Or sixth?) rendition of Happy Birthday when Bobbi leaned in to Lance while hefting a two-year-old higher on her hip, and said in an undertone, "I'm going to osculate you when we get home."

Lance had been confused ever since.

He had followed the direction of her gaze, but she was smiling at the brood of little humans crowding around that monstrosity of a cake and singing enthusiastically (without regard for pitch) and afterward had busied herself wiping the drool off his nephew's face.

He had wracked his brain for context, but came up with nothing: her statement was out of the blue, and they hadn't talked about anything in particular since the start of the party. He couldn't think of anything that had happened in the prior few days that could have warranted the statement, either. And what the bloody hell was obs...os... Whatever the hell was that word, anyway?!

When he finally got a moment to himself, he dug his phone out, grimaced at its stickiness from when it was handled by numerous little humans, and looked up 'obfuscate'. And frowned.

He finally found her in a corner, with a different child this time, feeding her a slice of cake.

"Bobbi?" he knitted his brows, still trying to make sense of her sentence.

"You said you want to..." he consulted his phone, "...obfuscate me?" He frowned.

"You want to confuse me when we get home?" He shook his head. "...Confuse me with...what, exactly?"

Bobbi stopped herself from rolling her eyes, but just barely. He had learned the signs of an almost-eyeroll a long time ago.

"I said 'osculate', Hunter, not 'obfuscate'," she said neutrally, her face giving nothing away.

She turned back to the child, "Really, you need to work on your listening skills." She resumed chattering to the child about her favourite doll and he knew it was pointless to continue asking.

And of course his phone would run out of juice.

He spent the rest of the party trying to figure out what 'osculate' meant. It just about near drove him insane with wondering, but every time he approached Bobbi, she looked like she would glare him to a painful death if he tried to press her about it. Since he wasn't entirely sure she didn't have some sort of laser-eye-killing-tech, he didn't want to push it.

Osculate. It sounded painful, and mechanical, like it would involve stainless steel tools of torture? But it also reminded him of 'oscillate', maybe it had something to do with spinning..? What the bloody hell was she going to spin him around for? With metal tools?! What had he done wrong now?!

By the time they got home, he had calmed down a great deal (or so he felt) and figured it was safe to ask. At least if he really did die by Death Glare, there wouldn't be any little humans around to serve as collateral damage.

"Bob?" he called, leaning against the wall for support as he peeled off a sock. He could hear her clattering about in the kitchen, keeping leftover rainbow cake that his aunt had insisted they absolutely must take home.

"That thing you said earlier. Did I do something wrong, or..?"

He heard rather than saw her approach him. He turned to face her, the second sock hanging off his foot.

"What does oscu- Mm!" He was cut off mid-sentence as Bobbi cupped his head, pushed him against the wall, and began a deep, thorough exploration of his mouth.

Two tossed shirts and one unbuckled belt later, they finally broke for air.

"Oh," he breathed dazedly, realisation having dawned on him sometime between losing his shirt and trying to get rid of hers. He was still pinned against the wall, their bodies still maintaining multiple delicious points of contact.

Bobbi just smirked in response.

Then he frowned, and Bobbi inched back a little from where she had been resting her forehead against his to regard him somewhat quizzically- as quizzically as it was possible to look with half-hooded eyes, anyway-

"What the bloody hell was wrong with 'kiss'?!"

* * *

**A/n: **  
osculate, _verb  
_To kiss.

A happier fic :)


	4. undercover, adj

**undercover**, _adj._

Hunter,

I know you saw me on the corner of that street today. You know how you always say I have eyes in the back of my head? It's called noticing a reflection. You should know, you spend an hour preening in front of your own every morning.

I'm sorry I walked away without saying hi, or even acknowledging you. I couldn't risk the mission— but you know it's more than that. You're not supposed to die before I do, remember? You swore to sing that godawful dirge I hate at my funeral, the one you wouldn't stop singing for a week just to piss me off. Well, it worked. Sing it at my funeral; I might just get out of the coffin to shut you up again. One can only hope.

You're not supposed to die before me, and I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure that happens. I'm sorry.

Sometimes I wonder if these missions are worth it. If they're worth us. I know you say you understand, but I know a bit of the bitterness stays each time anyway—it's only human. I don't know how much of this you and I can take. I want you to know that I know, that I do think about it, and... I'm sorry.

When this is all over, when you finally get to read this, we'll have a laugh over it, okay?

It's getting harder to find creative places to store these letters; I feel like a squirrel hiding nuts for the winter. Good thing I like a challenge.

This will be over soon. I know I said that the last time—not that you would have gotten that letter, since it's still with me—but I'm trying, I promise.

Stay safe until I get back, okay?

Love,

Hell-Beast

Or whatever it is you've taken to calling me this time.

* * *

**A/n: **One of the many letters from Bobbi to Hunter while she was on a mission.

Based on a suggestion by La Madone, 'undercover'. :) thanks for the prompt!

To the rest, thank you for your prompts as well! I'll work on them when the inspiration strikes :)


	5. neologism, n

**neologism**, _noun_

Lance's jaw fell open. "You've never seen peafowl! But… how can that be?" he sputtered.

Bobbi shrugged and continued channel surfing while he gaped like a fish out of water. She knew she should've kept her mouth shut instead of commenting that she had never seen a live peacock or peahen when she surfed past the National Geographic channel.

"You're twenty—" she narrowed her eyes at him, and he very wisely and swiftly changed his choice of words, "Ahh, I mean—You can't have lived this long without seeing peafowl! That's got to be a criminal lapse of education somewhere!"

"C'mon," he tugged at her arm, ignoring her groans and dragged feet. "We're going to look for peacocks."

Bobbi only let him drag her out because he'd had that determined look in his eye and she knew he wouldn't shut up about it until they did it, and she had been bored anyway. She figured strolling in a park with green grass, blue sky, fresh air, the works, was a nice change from their usual couch potato behaviour. Or at least, it would be, if they were actually taking a walk _together_.

Lance was several feet in front of her, peering high and low for peafowl. Every few minutes she would catch snippets of 'Bloody things. Never there when you want to see them, always in the way when you don't'. Then he would scowl to himself and turn back to her and announce that they "definitely would see one soon".

If he didn't look so adorable when he was so earnest, she would have told him that she really didn't give a peacock's crap about whether she ever saw one or not.

And then he went "A-_hah!_" triumphantly and yanked her toward the bird, practically running. She didn't see why they had to run, seeing as the bird seemed extremely unperturbed by them and wasn't going anywhere. She told him so, and added, "Peacocks can't fly."

Lance huffed in annoyance and muttered something about that not being the _point_, and then beckoned her closer.

"It's a male, it's a peacock, look! You can tell because it's so colourful. The female are called—"

"—Peahens. Yes, I know," she interrupted. "And they're a boring brown colour. Look, just because I've never _seen_ one in real life, Lance, doesn't mean I don't _know_ about them."

But he had stopped paying attention to her and was instead trailing the peacock, hunched over with his hands out in front of him like a weird creepy little man (which wasn't too far off the mark, if she thought about it), trying to make it spread its feathers.

"I can't get it to spread its wings," he whined, two feet behind a rather annoyed peacock, which was walking around in circles as if it was trying to shake him off.

Bobbi watched them from a distance, arms crossed and brows raised. _I know how you feel, _she thought to the peacock.

"It's its _feathers_, not wings, Hunter. Seriously, _you're_ probably the criminal lapse in education."

He flapped a hand at her in annoyance, scowling.

"And you do know that peacocks spread their plumage to attract peahens, right? So unless you get a peahen here…"

She heard something that sounded like 'know-it-all' and smirked, knowing she had won this round.

"Come on, let's head on home. We can watch peacocks spread their feathers on YouTube all night if you want."

"No! You've got to see this! It's a _life experience,_" he insisted. "Their plumage is magnificent," he reached out a hand to stroke the feathers trailing on the ground.

"Hunter!"

He withdrew his hand as if he had been whipped, and glared at her.

"What was that for?"

"Don't annoy the poor bird. I'm not going to save you if you piss it off," she warned.

"Fine, fine," he rolled his eyes in an eerily similar way to her and straightened up. "My beloved wife isn't going to save me from being pecked to death by angry peafowl, I get it."

She was about to retort something when he gasped in excitement as a peahen appeared out of nowhere. He tailed the peacock as it strutted toward the peahen, which paid him no notice and pecked the ground for food. The peacock circled the peahen twice, ruffling his feathers as he tried—and failed—to get her attention.

Bobbi couldn't help smiling when she realised what this reminded her of: it reminded her of Lance trying to get her attention. He would follow her around, saying and doing increasingly ridiculous things, culminating in—

She had to swallow a laugh as the peacock finally spread his feathers (Lance yelped and leapt away) and arranged them haughtily, standing right in front of the peahen with its neck arched high, practically screaming 'Notice me!'. Yep, it definitely reminded her of Lance.

The peahen didn't even glance at the peacock, which seemed to be getting increasingly frustrated. It ruffled its red-brown wings and waved its iridescent feathers in some sort of dance, but—still nothing.

Lance turned to her, aghast, "Look at him peacocking! And she won't even _look_ at him!"

Bobbi couldn't help it. She burst out laughing, while Lance looked indignant and confused and eventually scowled saying it wasn't funny, what was she laughing about, the poor bird was being ignored by that arrogant, presumptuous hen.

"Sweetheart," she laughed, coming up to wrap her arms around his waist beneath his own folded ones. She bent to rest her head on his shoulder as they watched the peacock continue his mating dance to no avail, "No one uses the word 'peacocking'."

* * *

**A/n: **  
neologism, noun.  
A newly coined word or expression; a made-up word.

A reference to their argument in S02E06, A Fractured House. ;)


	6. dearth, n

**dearth**, _noun_

_Beep._

"_Hey mate, I'm sorry I'm not able to answer your call right now, but—"_

"_Hunter! For once, just _once, _could you remember to soak your dishes when you're done eating? I swear you break them on purpose to get out of dishwashing—"_

_[Muffled shouts]_

_[Loud exhale]_

"_Sorry 'bout that, that was the she-devil hell-beast I'm currently residing with. As I said, I'm not able to take your call right now, but if you'll leave a message—"_

"_Hunter, where's Mr Boots?"_

_[Slightly muffled] "Damn it Bobbi how would I know?" _

"_Well, it's _your_ cat."_

"_Why do you want it for! It's a cat, it's roaming around, just leave it be—" _

"_You left the front door open Hunter, if I have to go out searching for him in the middle of the night _again—"

_[Movements]_

"_Bloody hell."_

_Beep._

"Hey Hunter."

Bobbi bit her lip.

"I… I know I should stop calling, it's not like you'll pick up anyway; this phone has been dead for months."

She picked at her hoodie. It had been Lance's, but it was too comfortable, and she'd never given it back. They'd fought over it. He'd stopped asking, after a while.

"I just… I just wanted to hear your voice," she gave a shaky laugh. "Even if we're arguing for most of it."

"And this is the part where you ask if I'm on drugs, because I never say these things."

"But uh… It's strange, y'know? It's strange to come home to peace and quiet—and that wasn't an insult!—It's strange not to argue with someone—not to have someone to argue with."

She hugged herself tightly, inhaling the scent of the hoodie. It hardly smelt like him, anymore; she had worn it too often, and worn the smell off, she supposed.

"I miss you," she murmured.

"I wouldn't even mind the cat, just for company. Because he was yours."

"Okay. Okay, _that _was cheesy. I'm sorry," she chuckled, and somehow it turned into a sob mid-laugh.

She exhaled shakily, brushing off tears with the back of her hand.

"_God, _I miss you," she repeated, not bothering to hide the tremors in her voice, because who would hear it?

"I miss you, you idiot. I know I've said this every time I've called… But I do."

"Sometimes, I wish you would just pick up."

_Beep. _

_End of message._

* * *

**dearth**, _noun  
_an inadequate supply; lack; scarcity and dearness of something _(or someone)_

Origin: relates to the same Old English root from which "dear" is derived.

Because I'm feeling particularly emotional tonight, and (wrongly) thought writing would help.


	7. nonesuch, n

**nonesuch**, _n_

_Screams._

_Smoke._

_Eight little girls, huddled in a corner silently, faces streaked and blackened with soot._

_Eight pairs of eyes, staring at her like she was their salvation._

_An ominous creak, a crushing blow, then—nothing._

Bobbi jack-knifed in bed gasping for air, throat on fire, as if she had just been choking on smoke. A dull ache throbbed at the base of her skull exactly where the beam had hit her all those years ago. For a moment, all she could see were those eyes, large and trusting, staring at her, staring, staring—

And then a warm hand covered hers slowly, bringing her out of the memory, saving her.

"Another one?" Lance asked quietly.

She nodded, heart racing, not trusting herself to speak.

"C'mere," he said, pulling her in to rest against his chest. They lay like that for a while, motionless, her head beneath his chin, his arms wrapped around her tightly, as if he could shield her from her nightmares, until she had been calmed by the steady thump of his heartbeat.

Bobbi inhaled and exhaled slowly. She could feel Lance's fingers in her hair, stroking and pulling gently in the knowledge that the worst of it was over. She knew he probably had not slept all night, probably had waited for her to wake up from this nightmare or that failure, because when it came to her, and her alone, he seemed to notice all the signs.

Someone who cared for her, who could read her, who knew what she would need; someone who _understood_ the agony of recurring nightmares; someone who would, and had gone to great lengths to protect her—someone she didn't have to pretend with; someone she could be vulnerable with; someone she could trust.

Someone she loved, who loved her back, dirt, grit, flaws and all. She laced her fingers with his. What more could she ask?

She took a deep breath. "Lance?"

"Hmm?"

"Yes."

"Yes…what?" he asked confusedly, forehead crinkling in that way he did so often.

"Remember that question you asked me, that one time?" she began, the sides of her lips slowly tilting up.

"Wha—"

It took a few moments, but Lance finally pulled away to look her in the eye, hope bubbling over into his voice.

"You don't mean the time when—"

She nodded, feeling colour rush to her cheeks in an uncharacteristic display of shyness.

Lance gaped at her, a grin spreading wide across his features as the significance of her reply sank in.

"Yes? Really? You're not joshing me are you—no?" He stared at her in wonderment, like he had never seen her before.

Then he threw his head back and laughed and tugged her beneath the blanket, peppering her with kisses.

"Bobbi Hunter," he said thoughtfully. "I could get used to that."

"Who said I'm taking your last name?" she scoffed in mock offence, and laughed as Lance protested and started listing nonsensical reasons for her to do so.

She hadn't felt so light in a very long time.

* * *

**A/n:**

**nonesuch, **_n.  
_a person or thing without equal.

Seems a bit of an exaggeration with regard to Hunter, I admit...

**Part 1/3 of the Valentine's series ;) check back for more!**


	8. misgivings, n

**misgivings**, _noun_

No music. No flowers. No white gown—the most important dress in a woman's life, not that Izzy cares; and Bobbi is far from virginal anyway, judging from all her regular tousle-headed morning appearances with Hunter— but that doesn't make it okay.

This isn't the wedding Izzy had envisioned for Bobbi.

-o-

When Bobbi had first told her, she'd thought she was joking. Then she saw how Bobbi's lips were curved upward in a permanent smile, how the light in her eyes made her seem years younger, how there was a new bounce in her step, and she was incredulous.

* * *

"He's just one guy, Barbara. Sure, maybe he's really that good in bed, but is that any reason to _marry_ him?"

Izzy shakes her head, not understanding. "Why would you tie yourself to some jackass who pisses you off half the time—you're always arguing! If he's really that good, you could just have your fun with him and move on when you're sick of him, it's the 21st century Barb, no one's gonna judge you for that."

Bobbi laughs at her 'jackass' comment, then turns solemn, a small smile gracing her lips, "It's more than that, Iz," she says quietly. "And besides," she adds after a pause, "You know I don't do that. Not anymore."

Izzy is silent for a moment, before bringing up something that she had wanted to keep secret. Everyone had their demons, after all—

"There's something I never told you," she begins hesitantly, "Something I'm not sure you know about."

It had been a Tuesday night, and Lance was over at their apartment, waiting for Bobbi to return from a mission. He had finally dozed off, much to Izzy's relief— he hadn't stopped talking all night, and she was this close to slipping an Ambien (or a handful) into his beer just to have some peace and quiet. There had been a sudden loud noise, probably something the upstairs neighbour had dropped onto the floor, and the next moment Hunter had leapt off the couch, yelling at invisible buddies to take cover, wrestling enemies who weren't there, eyes dark and panicked with remembered horrors.

It had taken the good part of an hour just holding his hand and rubbing his back, before the darkness lifted and was replaced by shame. When he'd realised where he was and what had happened, Lance had scrubbed his face, muttered a hoarse 'thank you', and slipped out the door unsteadily before she could say another word.

She watches Bobbi as she recounts the incident, but she keeps her face averted, curls shielding her face from sight. Izzy pauses in a memory—she had just picked up knitting then, she'd read somewhere that the repetitive action was calming, and she'd needed some calm in their line of work, more so since Hunter had started coming over so often. She remembered how the row of messy stitches she had painstakingly knitted had come unravelled amidst all the activity, and how it had struck and unsettled her at the time, as if it was some morbid foretelling of Lance's mental state—but she keeps that detail to herself. It won't help, after all. But it still unsettles her.

Izzy notes how Bobbi is preternaturally still, as if to keep from shaking—just like she had taught her, atta girl— her hands carefully and casually relaxed atop the kitchen table.

He's suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, Izzy tells her, and it was possible that his chronic alcoholism wasn't just because he was a slob, but was to cover up—cover up something else.

Now that she knows to look for it, Izzy has seen moments when Lance's mask of inappropriate jokes and casual nonchalance had slipped, to reveal pain and horrors that hovered at the edges of his consciousness, barely held at bay.

"It's PTSD, and he's in the thick of it— but you already knew that," she realises when Bobbi meets her eyes, red-rimmed from holding back tears, pained from restrained sorrow.

She nods. "Yes, I know," she says softly.

"Barb... You know I love you, and I want the best for you." Izzy pauses, unsure of how to continue. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"You shouldn't stay just because you would feel guilty for leaving. You're not responsible for him, Barb. You don't have to make him better; you don't have to fix him. If—God forbid— something happens to him one day, it won't be your fault," she says earnestly. "You shouldn't stay just because he needs you— you definitely shouldn't _marry_ him just because he needs you."

"I don't mean to tell you what to do, Bobbi," she softens, "But I love you— you're like a sister to me, and I want the best for you."

She swallows, knowing that if Bobbi really does decide to go ahead with the marriage, she wants her to have considered all aspects, "I don't want you to be someone else's crutch, to always be the one to look out for him. I'm afraid that one day it'll blow up in both your faces and leave you worse off than before."

"I don't want you to be someone else's crutch, Barb," she says, getting emotional. She squeezes her hand. "You deserve more than that."

Bobbi is silent for a long while, her golden curls curtaining her face. When she finally looks up, there are ghosts in her eyes, and she looks ten, twenty years older.

"I have nightmares too, Iz," she whispers, letting her mask slip for a moment to show her the missions, the deaths, the _what ifs_ and the _maybe-I-could-haves_ that still haunted her after all these years, before averting her eyes, missing the stunned, pained look on Izzy's face.

This was Barbara— her little sister—_she should have known_. How could she not have known? She'd thought she'd gotten over those missions years ago—

"He's as much my crutch as I am his, Iz," Bobbi gives a hollow laugh and wipes away an escaped tear. "He pisses me off all the time, but it keeps me sane—it makes me feel alive. I can _feel_ with him—even if most of the time that feeling is annoyance."

"And... He knows what it's like. The nightmares." She swallows the lump in her throat, swallows the familiar rise of panic. "To... To relive them over and over, to see friends die, or get hurt, and wonder what else you could have done."

She looks up at Izzy, eyes brimming with tears. "He gets it. He gets _me._"

She takes a shaky breath, "And he doesn't press me to tell him about it, he doesn't..." she squeezes her eyes shut, liquid salt running a familiar path down her cheek.

"He gets me Iz," she says simply. "I don't have to hide with him, because I can't— he sees right through me." She shakes her head in disbelief and amazement at the realisation that _they are getting married_, and when she smiles, it lights up her eyes and face and make her look as if she is glowing from within.

"I love him, Izzy."

* * *

She regrets that she hadn't noticed Bobbi's pain herself, and frankly, is a little hurt that she had gone to someone else for comfort—but, she thinks with a sigh, it's probably her fault for teaching Bobbi how to control and suppress her emotions so well—well enough to fool her; though, it appeared, not well enough to fool Hunter (which is strange in itself, because he's one of the most oblivious idiots she has ever met who is also a spy—she often wonders how he's even survived this long).

If she had her way, if arranged marriages were still a thing, Izzy would have chosen someone else for Bobbi— someone a little less aggravating, a little less childish, and a lot more emotionally stable.

But, she supposes, suppressing a heavy sigh as the couple bend over in soiled tactical gear (probably the furthest thing from _pristine white dress _they could get) to sign the papers, if he was good enough for her Barbara, he was good enough for her.

* * *

**A/n:**

**misgivings**, _noun  
_a feeling of doubt, distrust, or apprehension

Part 2/3 of the Valentine's series ;)

A response to mockingjaylane's prompt, 'misgivings'. I hope you liked it! :)


	9. swivet, n

**swivet**, _noun_

Hunter asks Bobbi to close her eyes, and after a bit of grumbling, she does— she's in a good mood.

Hunter carefully opens the sapphire velveteen box, worn and faded with age, and removes two vintage pearl earrings. He removes the backing from one, just like his mum had taught him, and leans in to Bobbi—

"Hunter, _what_ are you doing?"

"Nothing!" he yelps. He draws back hasily, hiding the pearls in his fist.

He clears his throat. "Nothing," he says more calmly. "Close your eyes Bob, it's meant to be a surprise."

Bobbi narrows her eyes at him.

"Okay..." she says slowly. "...But it'd better not be a prank... You know I prank better than you do." She smiles mischievously, and he's not sure whether he should take that as a warning.

He laughs nervously instead. "It's not a prank Bob, just close your eyes."

It takes him a while, but he finally manages to attach one earring to her ear and sighs in relief.

Bobbi holds out her hand for the other earring, eyes still closed.

Lance looks down at her outstretched palm. "No, I should do it—"

"Just give it to me Hunter, or we'll spend another fifteen minutes sitting here while you swear down my ear and butcher my ear lobe," she insists, and Lance sighs loudly to let her know he's not agreeable to this arrangement and _really_, he didn't take _that_ long, she was just exaggerating again.

She puts on the earrings in two seconds flat, and Lance can't help but marvel at her ability to manipulate small fiddly things.

(He ignores the snarky voice in his head—it sounds like her, by the way— that says he's a small fiddly thing too and she's managed to manipulate him just fine.)

Bobbi raises her eyebrows. "So... what are these?"

She reaches a hand to her ear to feel and frowns. "Are these pearls?"

Her voice takes on a wary tone. "Is today some special occasion? Because I was _sure_ I marked down everything, and the next date we agreed to celebrate was Valentine's eve, and that's not for another two weeks..." her voice trails off as she realises Lance has one knee on the ground.

"Hunter," she says, a tinge of panic and nervousness in her voice, "What are you doing?"

Lance swallows. He's glad he decided to get flowers, because who knew having something to clutch helped this much with anxiety?

"Bob—" he clears his throat, looking into her panicked eyes, trying not to let her panic affect him.

"Barbara Morse," he starts, and his voice comes out huskier than it meant it, but it's a good thing, good, "I've loved you since I first saw you uh... Ah..." he pinches the bridge of his nose and scrunches up his face.

"Since I first saw you… at uh… Bloody hell, I can't believe I forgot, I had a whole speech and everything— Ah... I uh..."

He tries again, "I know it hasn't been long Bob, not as long as you'd like, but I... Uh... I think... Oh damn it."

He shakes his head, giving up. He stares earnestly into her still wide-with-panic eyes, and takes her hand in his sweaty one.

"I love you. Marry me," he says desperately, clutching her hand tightly.

His ears ring in the ensuing silence. When his dad had told him that the silence after this question would be the longest silence in his life, he had laughed it off. He owed his dad an apology.

"Hunter—Lance- I..." Bobbi stammers, staring back at him, speechless for once.

His heart is beating fit to burst right out of his ribcage. "Well?" he asks hopefully.

"I... What..." she shakes her head, trying to skirt the question she doesn't know how to answer.

"W..What about a ring?" she hedges, hoping that will throw him off-track while she gathers her thoughts.

"Well, you have missions all the time, I didn't think you'd like to be toting around a diamond," he explains, feeling clever.

"So... your solution was to get me large pearl earrings..?" Bobbi narrows her eyes, trying to figure out his thought process. "How does that make any more sense than a ring?"

Lance gapes at her, his mouth opening and closing without a sound. Bobbi rolls her eyes. Evidently, that had not occurred to him.

"Well... Those are my nan's pearl earrings!" he sputters defensively. "It was supposed to be a nice _gesture_!"

"You want me to wear your _grandmother's pearl earrings_ on assignments?!"

* * *

**A/n:  
****swivet**, _noun  
_a state of nervous excitement, haste, or anxiety; flutter

Part 3/3 of the Valentine's series ;)

Hope you enjoyed the series!

And Happy Valentine's to all of us who are living vicariously through fanfiction, haha. Hope you had a good one!


	10. band-aid, n

**band-aid,**_ noun_

As an April Fools' prank, Skye replaces all the regular band-aids in all the first-aid kits with bright pink Hello Kitty ones. It's meant to be a prank on the whole team, but they all know there's really only one klutz in their group—or at least only one without access to his own personal supply of medical supplies. She informs Fitzsimmons to keep their stash to themselves, and after a bit of coaxing and reassuring ("But what if it's a proper medical emergency?" Simmons had asked), they acquiesce, if somewhat bewilderedly.

For the next few days, Skye keeps an ear out for sudden loud exclamations. She doesn't have to wait very long—there's a reason why Bobbi constantly laments that she seems to be on permanent babysitting duty, after all. Sure enough, one day:

"_Oi, who swopped out all the band-aids!"_

Skye prays that the wound is in a visible, preferably embarrassing, location.

By the time she not-so-accidentally finds Lance (she'd checked the cameras on base), he's nursing a beer on the couch in the break room and looks as grumpy as that cat on the mug in the kitchen. He looks up when she enters, and her eyes widen as she stifles a giggle.

"What." Lance scowls at her and resumes pouting at the blank television screen, muttering something about a "she-devil" and "hell-beast" and "get hurt just thinking about her" under his breath.

Skye straightens her face with some effort and is about to feign innocent concern about his injury, when Bobbi pops in her head in, "Hey—"

They both turn toward her instinctively, and Bobbi catches sight of Lance and stops short. "_Is that a cat on your face Hunter?" _She bursts out laughing, and Skye can't help it, she joins in, and they both ignore Lance's outraged protestations that _some very cruel person _used up all the band-aids and these were the only ones left—and he had to patch up his head, didn't he, _it was a health and safety issue—_

In between cackling (mostly at Lance's reaction—it wouldn't have been half as funny if he hadn't reacted that way, but that was what Skye had been going for in the first place), Bobbi informs Skye that May wanted her, and they both take off, leaving Lance aghast and sputtering about the _injustice_ of it all with pink and white cats plastered across his forehead.

* * *

**A/n:**

**Band-Aid**, _noun, trademark.  
_A brand name of Johnson &amp; Johnson's line of adhesive bandages.

A prompt from Sam (guest), some time back.

Thank you so much for the prompts guys! I'll definitely respond to all of them, it'll just take some time for inspiration and prompts to match up :) meanwhile, I hope you enjoy the stories, and do keep the prompts coming!

I would really appreciate a review if you liked the shorts as well! :)

**Replies  
**Sam: hope you liked how the prompt turned out!

Sasha: Thank you for your reviews! Glad you seem to have enjoyed them so far if you want, you could check out my other stories and let me know what you think of them! I would love to hear your feedback! (and really this goes for everyone—feedback is always welcome)


	11. enceinte, adj

**enceinte**, _adj_

Hunter looked up from the tablet, distracted by the sound of someone moaning and throwing up in the bathroom. He left the tablet where he had found it, still open to the Google page, and made his way dazedly toward the sound.

He wasn't sure what to think— hell, he wasn't even sure what he felt.

He found Bobbi curled around the seat of the toilet, and wordlessly held her hair and rubbed soothing circles into her back as she emptied the contents of her stomach into the bowl.

"Here," he said sometime later, placing a glass of warm water in front of her. He perched on the kitchen stool beside her.

Bobbi made an unintelligible sound, her head cradled in her palms.

"Drink up, you need to rehydrate," he coaxed, stalling for time, still unsure of how he should react. The only thing stopping him from blowing his top was how pale and weak she seemed—He'd never seen her like that. Then again, he would have, but she hadn't given him that chance, had she? Hunter took a deep breath and bit down on the rising anger.

"C'mon," he prompted.

Bobbi cracked her eyes open and smiled gratefully, taking tentative sips.

Hunter took a deep breath. "So," he began conversationally, "When were you going to tell me about the baby?"

Bobbi sputtered. Her gaze flew toward his quickly, her eyes suddenly alert, her shoulders tense. But she recovered quickly—the next moment, they had relaxed, and only her eyes remained slightly wary. He would've marveled at her control if it hadn't been directed toward him.

"What are you talking about?" she frowned, expression filled with just the right amount of confusion.

Oh, she was _good_.

"You know what I'm talking about, Bobbi." He could feel his frustration rising to the surface. "I went to Simmons."

"Why did you go to—"

"You _know_ why," Hunter interrupted. His eyes bore into her. "Simmons is a really bad liar, Bob."

Bobbi's eyes flashed. "I have no idea—"

"No idea what I'm talking about? Really, Bob?" Hunter left to retrieve the tablet and slammed it down on the counter in front of her, screen bright, the search box a screaming accusation: _How to tell your ex you're pregnant with his second child when he doesn't know about the first?_

Bobbi swallowed. She must've left the page open when the morning sickness had hit. She didn't ordinarily do such banal things, and she didn't think Google would actually provide answers, it was just that she had been so frustrated and anxious and didn't know where else to turn. Simmons had known, but only because she couldn't bring herself to believe the five positive pregnancy tests and had asked her to run a blood sample instead. And she had been of no help at all on the Hunter front— 'Just tell him!' she'd said.

"Hunter, I—"

"When were you going to tell me, Barbara? When your stomach got too big to hide? You were going to pretend it was, what, Coulson's kid, is that it?"

A sudden horror entered his eyes. "Were you going to abort—"

"_No!_"

Bobbi wrapped her arms around her midriff protectively. "No," she repeated softly. "I would never do that. Not after…" her voice trembled and broke as they both remembered the child they'd had, and lost.

"'The first'." Hunter shook himself from the darkness of the memory and pointed at the screen. "Tell me that doesn't mean what I think it means Bob," he said tightly.

When she finally looked up from the screen, she had tears in her eyes. It was so uncharacteristic of her that it almost shocked him into forgetting what she'd lied to him about, and he had to resist the urge to draw her into his arms.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, lip trembling.

He had guessed—he had _known_, it was the obvious inference, but hearing her confirmation—

"Sorry? _Sorry? You kept my child from me_!" he bellowed. "How could you be so selfish—how could—why—Were you ever going to tell me, or were you going to keep it a secret forever—Did you—You did it to spite me, didn't you—"

"You wanted a divorce!" Bobbi cried, cutting him off. She buried her face in her hands for a moment, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

"We'd been quarreling a lot more than usual," she began shakily, scrubbing her face of tears and meeting his gaze so he would know she wasn't lying. "We weren't talking much, or at all, really," she laughed bitterly, and he knew she was recalling their toxic routine of zero communication and lots of make-up sex, "...and one night, you left."

She shrugged, hunching into herself. "I was going to tell you that night," she said quietly. "But you said you couldn't do this anymore, that you were glad we didn't have any children, because our marriage would've been a terrible environment to bring them up in," she gulped, swallowing back tears and remembered pain.

"I was going to tell you about this—" she said, her palm flat on her belly, at the same time as he yelled, "So you're going to pin that on me?!"

"I'm not pinning that on you, I'm just telling you how things were at the time!" she retorted. "I didn't want you to stay with me because of a baby, it wouldn't have worked out—" she stopped abruptly and blanched, her hands flying to her mouth. Then she darted back into the bathroom and dry heaved into the toilet.

Hunter found her on the floor of the bathroom, leaning against the wall with her knees drawn up. He slid down to join her, shoulders almost touching, and handed her another glass of water. She took it from him gratefully.

"He's almost two," she ventured eventually, tentatively, a peace offering.

A knot formed in Hunter's throat. He had a son. A little boy. He nodded brusquely, not trusting himself to speak.

"He looks like you. He has your eyes," she said, smiling fondly, lost in memory. "Oh, and your dimples."

Tentatively, Hunter reached over and took her hands in his. She looked over at him apprehensively. He was still angry, and they were going to quarrel about this again more than once, he knew, but that wasn't what was important right now.

"I would have stayed, Bob," he said quietly. "We would've—we will work things out. It'll work out," he repeated fervently. He brought her hands to his lips.

"I want to stay—and not just for the baby—the babies—either." He swallowed, "You know I've never stopped loving you."

She could only nod tearily at the earnestness in his eyes and link her fingers with his tightly and lean in as he pulled her into an embrace.

* * *

**A/n:**

**enceinte**, _adj  
_pregnant; with child

Based on a Twitter prompt from Emily ( CarasJohn) :)

Related to two other of my previous stories, _Beginnings and Ends_ and _That Other Thing._


	12. solstice, n

**solstice**, _noun_

When Christmas jingles start playing in the shops, a familiar dread grows and burrows itself in Lance's gut.

He doesn't want to spoil everyone's mood, it's his own problem, after all, so he plasters on a smile, digs deep into his bag of lazy sarcasm, and dives into helping Skye decorate the base.

It's not so bad when he's busy.

When the twenty-first arrives, it almost takes him by surprise. The dread leading up to the date was almost worse than the dread on the actual day. Almost.

Now, on top of everything else, he feels guilty— guilty that he had almost forgotten about it in the midst of all the festivity.

It's almost midnight when he begs out of Scrabble (where Simmons is winning everyone at, as usual), using a sure-fire combination of whining about the lousy eggnog ("What kind of lousy rum did you use this time Skye?") and the 'stabbing' feeling in his gut ("What kind of pain is it?" Jemma had asked concernedly, and he had been forced to describe it). Neither is technically a lie— just that the gut-deep ache he feels isn't from the eggnog; and the only thing wrong with the eggnog is that it is too weak to numb that ache. Almost everyone is too piled on the eggnog, too drunk on lights and laughs and love, to look more closely at his lie, and they wave him off after a fashion.

He avoids Bobbi's eyes as he leaves, pretends he doesn't feel her gaze following him out of the room.

Lance heads straight for the storeroom, where Mack or Coulson or someone had stashed crates of beer, and drags one out. He turns to leave the store, but on second thought, hefts out another.

It's snowing lightly by the time he parks the jeep in the middle of an empty field. Trees fringe the field, their naked branches holding the last of the previous snowfall. The full moon casts a pale light in the bleak darkness.

Lance shivers as he gets out the first beer and pops the cap off, the sound loud as a pistol in the silent night. His leather jacket is in the backseat, probably, but he deserves this, he deserves to feel the biting cold. He takes a long swig, and without the warmth of the base, the chipper voices of his friends, the memories, the anguish—the soul-deep _guilt_—quickly catch up with him.

How long had it been? Three years? Four? He finishes the bottle and grabs another.

_A heavy weight shoving him to the ground. The muffled shots of a gun. The body jerking against him once. Twice. Thrice. The metallic smell of warm, sticky blood. Empty, lifeless eyes that would never see again._

It hadn't been a mission—at least, it hadn't been _his_ mission.

He had gotten sick and tired of not knowing what Bobbi was up to, and she refused to tell him, so he'd dug around, discovered her assignment, realised she was heading straight into a trap, and—

_His son excitedly yelling _Daddy, Daddy's home!_.__Little feet pattering down the stairs. The look on his wife's face when she realised why he was there on her doorstep instead of her husband. _

He'd gone to the location with his best bud from the SAS; they had risen up the ranks together—_It'll be just like old times, _he'd told him, and he'd sensed the anxiety beneath the jollity in Lance's voice like only an old friend could, and agreed without hesitation—_As long as I get home by tomorrow, I'm taking my boy to see Santa_—

_The slap on his face as his wife had wailed, broken, pointing at her husband's coffin_—_It was you! It was your fault! You took him from us_—_He called you his best friend_—_it wasn't even a mission, there's no record of it with the SAS_—_it was your own selfish_—_You selfish bastard_—He didn't have to die—

It had been a trap, like he thought, and they would've butchered Bobbi, but the shots that killed his friend alerted her to the gunmen's presence and she managed to take them all out, but not before—

_How _dare_ you even show your face here, after what you did to my sister_—

He had left the SAS, after that. He couldn't face his men, the men who had been his friends, his brothers. You didn't let down one of your own, no matter what, and he'd let his brother get killed watching his back—

_The sobs of his frightened and confused son—Where's Daddy? Why isn't Daddy home yet?— The mewling of the newborn who would never know her father, the little princess his friend had never gotten to meet._

He didn't regret saving Bobbi, not at all; the pain he felt now for his friend would have been nothing compared to the anguish of losing her, he knew that, but—if he could have done something differently… if he hadn't asked him along, if he had taken the bullets himself…

_The smell of the rain, the dirt. The sound of the shovel._

It was his fault. _It was his fault._

Lance's stomach heaves, and he throws up over the side of the bonnet, a muddy mess against the scattered bottles and pristine snow. He gropes around for another bottle, blinded from tears.

"You're going to drink yourself to death," a quiet voice chides gently from beside him.

He feels the warm weight of a jacket over his shoulders, and doesn't wrestle Bobbi for the bottle when she unfurls his fingers from it. He doesn't look at her, the shame of being seen in this vulnerable state—by her, no less—making him edge away from her touch.

He hadn't even heard her coming, this time.

She pulls herself up onto the bonnet, leaving a space between them.

"It wasn't your fault," she says after a silence, and Lance just shakes his head, _leave it. _She had been through this with him enough times to know when he couldn't take her comfort, and she lets the silence lapse.

The wife's words and the children's faces swim in front of his eyes, and he reaches for another drink. Bobbi doesn't stop him.

He hadn't gone to Izzy's funeral. After all she had done for him—all they had been through together— he couldn't even bring himself to say one last goodbye. All because he was too much of a coward—he couldn't stand to see the pain and accusation in Jane's eyes, to tell her that he had failed her sister like how she had never failed him—_Izzy hadn't wanted to die_. He hadn't even been man enough to give Jane their mother's necklace—he'd hung it in her car, instead, as if that was sufficient recompense for the friend he had failed to save.

He pops a cap, and then another, and another. Memories of his dead friends, the friends he's let down—_I'm taking my boy to see Santa—I don't wanna die—_meld together in his mind, and—and— he wouldn't have traded saving Bobbi for anything, but he can't reconcile the relief that she's still alive with the guilt that it cost his friend his life—

The voices don't stop, and their anguished faces swim before him whether or not he closes his eyes, and on this night, as on every twenty-first December since he led his best friend to his death, he knows that no matter how much he drinks, it won't numb the pain, or the guilt, or the grief.

He gulps the liquid down, relishing the burn in his throat—_anything to distract from the pain, the guilt_—until the ground around them is littered with empty bottles.

Eventually, he allows Bobbi to pull him into her arms, and he sobs into her shoulder while she hugs him tightly, fiercely whispering _it's not your fault_ over and over as she grieves with him, a talisman against his demons.

-o-

It's still snowing when he finally pulls away, embarrassed, and Bobbi links her fingers with his wordlessly.

They stay like this, sitting side by side in silence; staring into the cold empty dark and mourning their dead, and wait for the longest night of the year to pass.

* * *

**A/n:**

**solstice**, _n  
_(referring to the winter solstice in this fic)  
An astrological phenomenon which marks the shortest day and the longest night of the year.  
Usually occurs on December 21/22 in the Northern hemisphere.  
The winter solstice itself lasts only a moment in time, so other terms are used for the day on which it occurs (e.g. "midwinter")

-o-

"Why does any man do anything, General? I met a girl." –Hunter to General Talbott S02E02 (Heavy is the Head)

My take on why Hunter left the SAS. I don't think it was as simple as him meeting Bobbi and her asking him to leave, and anyway I don't think she would've asked that of him; it had to be something big, big enough to make him leave people he probably cared for very much.

What do you think? Is it plausible? Would love to hear your opinion!


	13. morse, n

**morse, **_noun_

Lance flops down on the bed beside Bobbi, huffing when she doesn't so much as glance his way. He peers round to read the blurb at the back of the book she's currently engrossed in—it's some crime-mystery-serial-killer thing, same as always. He doesn't understand this woman; he'd hardly ever dated the bookworm types, and when he did, they gushed on and on about romance and love and had insanely high expectations of him. The upside of that, though, was that they expected sex to be fantastic, and were more than willing to try out whatever strange positions they'd read about. And hell, Lance wasn't about to complain about that.

But this—well, Lance wasn't about to ask her to perform the acts she was reading about on him—they involve knives and torture, and not in a kinky way either. He nudges her leg with his knee, but she just moves it away, the traces of a frown on her forehead.

Fine.

He scoots up so that he's level with her and can peer down into her book, and she instinctively leans away—she hates when people do that, and he knows that full well—but twists at the last moment, holding the book at an angle so that he can read it too. She's been trying, and the action, small as it is, makes him smile.

He walks his fingers over to the pulse point at her wrist and rests it where he can feel the steady _thump, thump_ he has come to know so well. Bobbi reacts by turning the page of the book; he's done it so many times that she's gotten used to the feeling—it hardly ever tickles now. Taking a quick glance at her face to make sure she's properly engrossed in her book, he taps out an irregular rhythm on her wrist.

_.. / .-.. - ...- . / -.- - ..-_

It's a little awkward at first; he has to remember where the short taps are and where the longer beats go, but he does it over and over, a continuous _I love you, I love you, I love you, _until he can do it fluidly, without thinking. He looks up then, pleased with his accomplishment, and realises she's been watching him with a curious look on her face. His fingers pause in the middle of _love_, and he feels strangely panicked. She wouldn't know what he'd been typing, would she?

"What're you doing?" she asks, and he releases the breath he didn't know he had been holding.

"Nothing," he answers cheerfully, and resumes his tapping. Really, he wasn't sure why he was so nervous about it— it wasn't as if she didn't know he loved her.

-o-

It's only the years of practice of controlling her facial expressions that stop Bobbi from smiling. Of course she knows Morse code, her _name_ was Morse! Didn't he think she would have picked it up for that reason alone, if not because it was useful in her line of work?

Holding her book in one hand and pretending to read, she lets her left hand wander down between them to rest on his thigh, and her fingers tap out a quick message.

_I love you too, but that's starting to tickle._

Lance pauses halfway through her tapping, a half-horrified, half-curious look on his face—embarrassed realisation that she'd known what he'd been saying all this while mixed with confusion over what _she_ was saying.

Bobbi doesn't _really_ expect him to be able to decipher that, it would've been too fast for him (or anyone, for that matter) to catch, but she still stares at him expectantly. Lance's face screws up, trying to remember the order of taps and pauses, but eventually he gives up and shakes his head.

"What did you say?"

Bobbi cocks a brow. "What did I say?" she asks, all doe-eyed innocence. She bats her lashes for good measure, and Lance rolls his eyes.

"Do the tapping again!" he whinges. Bobbi smiles and shakes her head no.

"That's not fair! You wouldn't have been able to concentrate either if my hand were—" he reaches down to the analogous spot on her thigh but she catches his wrist, "Nuh-uh—"

"That's not fair!" he whines, and quickly darts back up to the pulse point at her neck, tapping erratically.

"Can you tell what I'm saying if I tap here? Or—" his hands trace the curve of her neck, her collarbone, outlines her breast, and he smirks when she leans into his touch. He taps the soft flesh in a pattern.

"See, I bet you can't tell what I said! It's distracting when—"

"You said 'I love you'," she cuts him off, and in spite of himself, Lance flushes red.

"I—Well—That's not fair—"

Bobbi cocks her head, waiting for a better argument, knowing he has none, and her lips quirk up at the look on his face.

"That's the only thing you know, isn't it," she asks amusedly, and he scowls.

"Come on, do it again!" he changes the topic back to her and wheedles for a repeat of her tapping.

She refuses, suddenly and inexplicably shy—maybe because she's never said those three words to him out loud before—and she's not ready, not just yet, so she tells him she was just saying it was ticklish and she was asking him to stop.

He looks at her suspiciously, but to her relief, decides not to press the point.

She gazes into his eyes, a silent thank you, and his blink and lazy smile tells her not to worry about it. His gesture—this space that he's learning to give her—fills her with a sudden rush of gratitude and affection, and she rewards with him with a kiss, his blood thrumming beneath her lips where they met his neck. (After all, positive reinforcement can't hurt, right?)

* * *

Years later, Bobbi finds herself in bed again, with Lance absentmindedly tapping her wrist in that familiar pattern. She's lying flat on her back, arm flung over her eyes. The book lying open by her side is dog-eared and highlighted, well-read over the past nine months. Lance doesn't have to read the blurb of the book this time; he's read _What to Expect When You're Expecting _cover to cover at least thrice himself and can probably recite the seventh sentence of Chapter One by heart, punctuation and all.

"This is all your fault," Bobbi groans for the fifth time in two minutes, struggling to turn on her side to ease the ache in her back. She's as huge as a house, and it's so hard to get comfortable because the baby keeps squirming and somersaulting and really, the baby's getting too big for the cramped confines of her womb. Bobbi's _exhausted_—she needs to pee _all the time; _she doesn't walk anymore, she _waddles; _she hasn't had a good night's rest since May, and—

She takes a deep breath to calm her nerves, blinking back anxious, tired tears (she's never been this emotional, this child is changing her inside out and upside down and sometimes it's just too much to handle and she hates being so out of control of her emotions) and Lance must have noticed, because he stops his tapping and presses a gentle kiss to her cheek. She focuses on the sound of his breathing and calms down a little.

Lance studies her for a moment, taking in the tired lines in her face, then wriggles down so that his head is level with her stomach. He props himself up on an elbow and peels back the Star Wars shirt that's straining taut against her belly (when she'd started getting bigger she'd lamented that this baby would stretch her favourite shirt all out of shape, so he'd gotten her another one two sizes larger, but even this one was getting all stretched out—but he would have to have a death wish to point that out again) and kisses the creamy skin.

Bobbi smiles; it makes a sweet sight, from her vantage point, and she wishes she could take a snapshot of this moment. _He will make a good father, _she thinks, and the thought overwhelms her for some reason and she hiccups back a teary smile (_damn these hormones_).

Lance glances up and probably misinterprets her expression, because he frowns and presses his ear to her skin for a moment, before shifting and prodding her belly all over until he feels the baby nudge him back. He starts tapping her belly, his face a picture of concentration.

"What are you doing?" she asks bemusedly, but he flaps his hand in a shushing motion without even looking in her direction. She swallows a laugh at his uncharacteristic solemnity and concentrates on his tapping instead.

She expects the familiar sequence of short and long taps, the one he's done so frequently that she knows it by heart, too; so when it starts off differently she's more than a little surprised—she had no idea he knew Morse code for anything other than 'I love you'.

She has no difficulty deciphering his tapping; codes have always come easy to her, much less _Morse, _and it turns out he's asking their baby to settle down, because "you're hurting Mummy, and she can't rest properly, and she loves you very much, but she's also very tired, so take a nap alright, baby bird?"

Bobbi is sure it's just a fluke, pure coincidence, because _how would the baby have learnt Morse code_ _in the womb?, _but their baby bird _does_ settle down, almost alarmingly quickly, and Bobbi palms her belly in surprise. She's both amused and overwhelmed, but the latter emotion wins out and she tears up again. She has no idea where Hunter would've learnt or when he had gotten so fluent at Morse code, and she has no doubt in her mind that he'd learnt it for her. But more than that, she feels so _loved_ that he would do this, talk to their baby for her, and she tugs him up for a kiss.

"Thank you," she whispers tearfully. (The part of her brain that isn't drowning in hormones frowns and is frustrated at all this emotional behaviour, but it's not like she can do anything about it)

Lance smiles, his eyes warm and sweet (oh she hopes their baby will have his eyes), and bops her nose with his.

"She'll be good now," he says, jerking his chin toward the imp in her belly. He crows about his ability to calm baby better than she can, _she's already a Daddy's girl, and such a little genius, she already knows Morse code—_

"She can't know Morse code Lance, that's not possible."

"Did you not just see what happened!" he protests, gesturing toward her belly. "She _knows_ it, it's practically _genetic, _I mean, your name is Morse for goodness' sake—"

"Genetic? Do you even know what genetic means Hunter?"

"Oh it's _Hunter _now is it, well how about I ask her to start kicking all over again—"

"It won't work, she doesn't know Morse code, it was just a coincidence!"

"She _knows_ Morse code—she'll listen to her daddy!" He starts tapping a rhythm on her belly, his face screwed up in concentration, and she sweeps his hand off her belly.

"Stop it—"

"See! You're afraid it'll work! She _knows_ Morse code and you're afraid I'm right!"

"Don't be ridiculous Hunter, that's not possible."

"_I'm _ridiculous?! Well that's rich, I—what's wrong?" His tone changes abruptly and he drops his faux heatedness as he notices the sudden worry on her face. "Bobbi."

She doesn't respond, just shifts so she's sitting up and frowns and feels about her abdomen, damping down the slow rise of fear in her throat. Lance's voice takes on a note of panic, "Sweetheart? What's wrong?" His eyes follow her gaze and dart downward.

"Bob?"

He covers her hand where she's cupped her belly, where the baby's head would be.

"She's—she's not moving," Bobbi forces out, remembered panic and grief and pain threatening to overwhelm her, and it takes no small amount of effort to stop the hysteria from leaking into her voice as she pokes and prods to cajole some movement out of their child.

Lance swallows—fear is contagious—but he can't panic, he has to stay strong for her, so with false cheeriness he laughs, "Of course she isn't, I told her not to move so much, didn't I? I told you she was a Daddy's girl."

To her belly, he says, "Mummy's such a worrywart, isn't she love?" He flattens his palm and feels all across the expanse of taut skin, applying pressure, silently praying for any movement—he knows it's probably nothing, the baby's probably fine, but- but—

He makes a show of tapping where the baby's head is, and dictates as he taps, '_kick mummy'_, and despite herself, Bobbi finds herself holding her breath.

Nothing happens after a long moment, and Bobbi chokes back a sob—_she can't lose this one, she can't— _she gropes about blindly for Lance's hand, and he grasps hers tightly while the other hand taps out a _'kick Mummy now_' more insistently.

When the baby kicks obligingly and reassuringly beneath Bobbi's hand, she laughs shakily, tears of relief beneath her lids.

"Well!" Lance exhales, and the relief is evident in his voice too, "It looks like we've got a literal one here, aye Bob?"

* * *

**A/n:**

**morse, **_noun  
_an alphabet or code in which letters are represented by combinations of long and short light or sound signals.

Baby bird fic! :D

I meant it to be cute and adorable and I don't know how it got painful at the end for that bit and I'm sorry D:


	14. futon, n

**futon, **_noun_

They almost miss the click of the key in the lock from all their frenzied breathing _after_. Bobbi notices first, of course— her eyes fly open and her face takes on a frightened expression as she tumbles off the futon, all graceful limbs even in such an undignified movement. She snatches up items of clothing where they have been strewn all across the living room and anxiously beckons a dazed Lance to follow as she hightails it into her bedroom.

They shut the bedroom door carefully just as Izzy enters the apartment, collapsing against the door out of breath and stifling giggles from the sudden adrenaline rush. Bobbi pulls on a tight shirt and short shorts, and Lance barely has time to mourn the loss of all that glorious expanse of bare skin when a cry of rage sounds from the other side of the wall.

"HUNTER! MORSE!" Izzy bellows. "WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT HAVING SEX ON MY FUTON!"

Ah, shit.

Lance and Bobbi look at each other, half-frightened for a moment, then burst out in laughter.

(Lance tries not to get turned on again, but Bobbi's laughter tends to have that effect on him.)

When they finally pluck up the courage to face Izzy's wrath a good three hours later (and this was only because Lance needed to pee, otherwise they would have waited a couple more hours just to be safe), Izzy is seated on the cold floor instead of on the comfy red futon sofa. She glares at them as they apologise meekly, but otherwise nurses her beer silently.

"How did you know?" Bobbi ventures eventually, perched on the edge of the cotton seat, long legs folded beneath her. Lance is sprawled on his back beside Izzy, peeling the beer label off his bottle absentmindedly, probably (and wisely) not daring to go near the furniture anymore. Izzy points, and Lance twists and cranes his neck for a better look. They follow Izzy's hand as she gestures to a dark stain on the red futon cover, crusty after hours of drying.

"You remembered all your clothes this time," she raises her beer in mock-salute, "But you forgot the semen."

Bobbi makes a choking noise and flushes the same scarlet as the futon, but Izzy's attention isn't on her.

Turning to Lance, who has gone preternaturally still and is keeping his eyes averted, Izzy says, the picture of calm but for the peeved look in her eyes, "You're getting me a new futon Hunter. This one is completely defiled and probably soaked through with little Hunters from all those other times, and frankly, all the dry-cleaning in the world isn't enough."

* * *

**A/n:  
futon, **_noun  
_a foam mattress on a wooden frame that folds in the middle, doubling as a couch and bed  
(or at least that's the one in question)

A short one this time heehee. This was the result of a random HC offshoot from something Taylor said about Izzy and a futon! :3


	15. practice, n

**practice***, _noun_

Lance watches as Bobbi settles her fleece sweater on the narrow shoulders of the 8 year-old.

"Here, you can have my jacket," she says, kneeling on the pavement dusted with new snow to zip the front of the jacket carefully. She rolls back the too-long sleeves on the child until two little hands peek from beneath.

"It's too cold out to be wearing short sleeves," she chides, resting her hands on the girl's skinny arms.

The child squirms, anxious to join her cousins playing some game or other that has them running and yelling until their cheeks are flushed.

"Yes Aunt Bobbi," she says distractedly, glancing behind her to look for the rest.

Bobbi lets go of the child, hands coming up to circle her neck for warmth— she'd wrapped her scarf around one of the little boys; _these kids, really_— when Lance calls from his perch on the porch railing.

"Kayla! What do you say to your aunt for the jacket?"

The child turns back, chastened. "Thank you Aunt Bobbi," she says shyly.

Bobbi tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and smiles. "You're welcome, Kayla."

Lance is looking at her with a strange smile when she hefts herself up beside him.

"What?"

He jerks his head toward the children running helter-skelter, at three in particular: one with a too-large jacket, another with a too-long scarf, and the last flapping too-large gloves around yelling that he was a bird.

"You'll make a good mum one day," he says simply, and smiles.

Bobbi stares at him for a moment and chews her lip.

"Well," she says carefully, taking his hand and settling it against her abdomen. "Practice makes perfect."

Lance looks down where her hand covers his, confused for a moment, before looking back up at her— she's smiling nervously.

"No," he breathes, eyes shining.

"Yes."

* * *

**A/n:  
****practice,** _noun_  
repeated exercise in or performance of an activity or skill so as to acquire or maintain proficiency in it

Based on a tumblr prompt: "Here, you can have my jacket. It's too cold out to be wearing short sleeves."

*This doesn't fit into the timeline of the rest of the stories (they're supposed to fit somewhat, with a little rearranging- it's just not a linear timeline). I just figured since I was replying prompts on tumblr that I might as well post them here too :)

Drop me a word or phrase prompt please! They're more than welcome :):)


	16. pillow, n

**pillow**, _noun_

Hey—what— what do you think you're doing Hunter?"

She can't decide whether she's annoyed or pissed and her question comes out as amused as Lance presses his entire body length against hers, having flung the book she'd been reading across the bed. He settles and twines himself around her, his thighs against her knees his arms wrapped snug around her waist- and head nestled on her right breast.

He lifts his head to look up at her, all large puppy eyes.

"You make a good pillow," he grins cheekily, before snuggling back down, head turned the other way.

"You're rolling your eyes," he says in a muffled voice, lips mumbling against her left, "You know you like it love, don't deny it."

(They fall asleep that night like that, with her arms cradling his head and her legs around his torso.)

* * *

**A/n:  
pillow**, _noun  
_a rectangular cloth bag stuffed with feathers or _other soft materials_, used to support the head when lying or sleeping._  
_

Based on a tumblr prompt: "You make a good pillow."

Two updates in a day! Score! :D  
Posting here since I replied the prompt on tumblr anyway.


	17. unsaid, adj

**unsaid, **_adj_

The last time he'd heard her voice, it was three weeks ago and over a crappy connection.

"Hunter–"

"Bob, are you alright? Where are you?"

"–mission–classif–"

The line was crackling; he could barely hear her over the static– or over the gunfire in the background.

"–if I don't–home–"

_You will, _he thinks, but he doesn't say it because he doesn't want to miss what she's saying.

His knuckles are white on the hard shell of the phone.

She's silent for a moment, and he would've wondered if the line had gone dead if not for the yelling in the background.

"Bob–"

"Be careful–"

She seems to hesitate, or maybe it was the connection, but he knows what she is trying to say.

_I love you too, _he thinks.

The line goes dead before he can finish, "Don't die out–"

"–there."

* * *

**A/n:  
unsaid, **_adj  
_not said or uttered

Based on a tumblr prompt: "things you said over the phone".


	18. blood, n

**blood, **_n_

He's dozing on the couch with the TV as a lullaby when the door clicks open quietly and there's a soft thud on the ground.

He's instantly awake, blood suddenly pumping fast in his veins. He's both relieved and afraid– those combination of sounds mean that she's home, but he's not sure in what state. Over the months, he's seen her return with nary a scrape, but he's also seen her completely unrecognisable.

He takes a deep breath to ready himself, turns toward the door, and then curses himself for taking his own sweet time. He dashes toward her, not a moment too soon– the moment his arms find purchase on her torn and bloody suit, her legs give way and she collapses in his arms.

He lowers her to the ground right where they are, half cradled in his arms, wanting to assess the damage before moving her further.

"Why didn't you stay to get medical," he chides gently, pushing back curls matted with blood (he doesn't let himself think _whose _blood) as he runs a critical eye over her body for injuries.

She tries to smile and winces as the action jars her split lip.

"Just…tired…" she whispers, and he hides his shock at her hoarse voice.

"Do you think you could move to the couch?"

She nods, but sways alarmingly, her fingers tightening on his arms, and she screws her eyes shut.

He's not letting her move a muscle.

He shifts her little by little until he gets a good enough grip, then carries her over to the couch.

They definitely weren't thinking straight when they got a white couch, he thinks, setting her down as carefully as he can. He moves to get a few washcloths and their quickly-diminishing first-aid kit.

"Don't…leave…" she wheezes, reaching for him weakly, her nails torn and broken.

He presses a kiss to her forehead; it tastes like sweat and blood. "I'll be right back, sweetheart."

-o-

By the time he's cleaned up the cuts and scrapes he can see, he's had to change the basin of water beside him thrice, it had turned from clear to murky with transferred grime and blood. A few of her half-dried wounds had started bleeding again, including a nasty-looking cut on her thigh.

She looked even worse cleaned up.

He runs a gentle hand over the bruise flowering on her cheekbone, and she opens her good eye slowly.

"I'm going to remove your suit now, okay?"

She blinks in acquiescence.

He swallows his horror as he unzips her front. Her body is more purple and black than its usual cream; her entire upper body a patchwork of painful bruises. He bites back his frustration at how she always puts herself in those situations and works on easing her out of the suit.

She hisses and jerks away from his touch when he tries to remove her arm from the left sleeve.

"Wh–"

And then he sees the deep gash on her chest, not an inch above her heart; the wound had bled, dried, and adhered to the fabric of her suit.

It takes many more bloody washcloths (he was going to have to throw them away, it wasn't possible to wash this much blood off them) and every last bit of their bandages, but eventually he gets every inch of her cleaned and patched up the best he can, and settles her in bed.

The fact that she hadn't protested when he carried her to bed scares him.

"You should've gotten medical," he admonishes, "I can't sew as well as they can over there, you're gonna have a crooked scar right here," he traces the bandage covering the site on her thigh.

She chuckles, but it comes out sounding like a wounded animal.

His hand comes up to hover over the knife wound on her breast. He swallows once, twice, but when he speaks he still sounds choked.

"I almost lost you."

Her bruised eyes fly open at his tone and she laces her fingers with the hand lying over her heart.

"You're not getting rid of me so easily," she says, but her teasing falls flat with her broken voice.

"Why didn't you get medical?" he asks again, curious; she would've known they would still have to go back the next day for help, since he didn't have enough supplies or expertise to attend to her wounds fully.

It's a long moment before she replies, and he starts to shift away, thinking she might've fallen asleep.

"Stay," she blurts, and the panic in her voice breaks his heart.

"I'm not going anywhere sweetheart," he assures. He curls himself against her, a comma, and presses a kiss to her temple. "I'm not going anywhere."

She sighs at his kiss and finally answers.

"I wanted to come home to you."

* * *

**A/n:  
****blood, **_noun  
_I don't really think this needs any explanation.

Based on a tumblr prompt: "I almost lost you." but Sasha (from FF) gave me a prompt long ago for 'blood' and I figured this kinda fit. (Two birds, right?) I'm sorry it took so long, but here you go! Hope you like it :)


	19. propinquity, n

**propinquity**, _n_

**#1**

He presses her body into the thin rug, trying to cover as much of her as he can. He rubs her arms to warm her up, trying to ignore the fact that their breaths are coming out in little opaque white puffs– and trying to ignore the fact that she was lying beneath him and that there wasn't a stitch of clothing between them.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you," she grits out, eyes darting down to where she can _feel him against her_ and back up to glare at him. He can barely hear her from how hard her teeth are chattering, but it sounded like something she'd say.

"_Excuse _me for trying to save our lives– _your _life! I can't help my reaction– would you rather_freeze _to death?!"

She's clamped her jaws together, but her lips move soundlessly, and he can just about make out her mouthing, "I might."

* * *

**#2**

Bobbi shifts uncomfortably.

"Stop it Hunter," she growls, but her hot breath in his ear just makes him whimper as he tries to back himself further into the closet.

He angles his head away from her, but she's everywhere, too close–her hair in his face no matter how he shifted, her arms braced against the back of the closet by either side of his head.

He swallows, trying to bend his body to his will.

"Cut it _out."_

"I can't help it," he says tersely, "_You're _the one who suggested hiding in here–"

"How was I to know it was so small?!"

"Maybe the fact that I said '_No, Bob, _it's too small'?" he snarls as loudly as he dares.

He's too close to her, too, and she shivers as his breath tickles her neck.

"See–Bob– when you do that– _I can't help it. I _don't want to be stuck like this any more than you do."

She bites her tongue, not wanting him to _react_ further, or at least she tries until he smirks and drawls, "Usually when I'm pressed up against someone this long, they've–ah, how should I put this delicately?– _enjoyed _themselves a couple of times."

She glares, and (for reasons she can't even explain to herself later on and refuses Hunter's explanation that she was "turned on too, don't deny it") nips at his ear; he yelps and jerks and they end up falling out of the closet in a _very compromising _heap.

* * *

**#3**

"This is all your fault Hunter."

"_My _fault again? How is _everything _my fault? Next you're going to blame for global warming."

"Don't be ridiculous–"

"_I'm _ridiculous? _You're _suggesting I got us tied up and thrown into the back of a trunk _on purpose–_ Do you think I really would dig us into a situation where we're pressed together like this–"

He pauses, thinking.

"Well actually… That _does_ sound a bit like me."

"Told you so."

* * *

**#4**

The metal chains binding them together rankle noisily.

"Bob, I know you fancy yourself as the next Houdini or whatever, but if you don't stop squirming like that, I'm not going to apologise for what you're going to feel."

* * *

**A/n:  
****propinquity**, _n  
_nearness in place or time;  
nearness in relationship

Based on a tumblr prompt: "things you said with no space between us". :)


	20. constellation, n

**constellation, **_n_

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Bobbi sighs, handing Lance a cold beer from the bucket. The grass tickles her bare feet, and she hugs her knees to her chest as she sips her cider, staring up into the vast starlit sky.

Lance hums in response from where he's lying beside her, head pillowed under an arm. He settles the beer on the grass and tugs her down beside him. She doesn't resist, and a small part of him registers this as a triumph. He'd take his victories where he could.

She rests her head against the join between his shoulder and chest ('the most comfortable part of you', she'd once said) and curls her body toward his; he drapes a lazy arm across her waist.

The field they've chosen tonight is dark and remote; crickets fill the comfortable silence, fireflies graze the top of the grass in the distance.

"Look, there's the Big Dipper," he says quietly, his voice reverberating in his chest beneath her ear.

"Where?"

He takes her hand, points her to the stars, "There, there, there, and there– see how all those stars form that trapezium shape, sort of like a kite? And there's the tail…"

"I don't– oh!"

He guides her hand over to the right, "And they're part of Ursa Major, the Great Bear constellation." He traces the rest of the stars with her index.

Bobbi tilts her head up, smiling. "How do you know these things? You don't strike me as the sort to sit outside and stare at stars."

"Well…" he hesitates, averting his eyes to stare at the sky. She prods his side playfully. "What?"

"I don't want to tell you– it's embarrassing!" he says, grabbing the offending finger and lacing his hand with hers.

"Now I really want to hear it."

"As if you don't have enough things to blackmail me with," he scoffs, but draws her hand up to his lips and kisses each knuckle.

"So one more can't hurt," she counters, smiling.

It takes her a bit more cajoling and more than a few kisses and an extracted promise that she wouldn't tease him for being sappy before he finally talks.

"I… I wanted to teach my kids these things," he gestures to the sky, "Take them out, go camping or fishing or hiking, you know." He shrugs awkwardly. "Kids these days just stay at home, don't get out much. I wanted to teach my kids the things my dad taught me."

When she doesn't respond, he looks down at her anxiously; she's staring into the distance unseeingly. "Bob?" he urges. "I didn't mean… We don't have to… I'm not hinting…"

She meets his eyes, the corners of her lips quirked up and a strange twinkle in her eye. "You can teach them about the stars, but I'll do the fishing. I've seen you fish, Hunter, all they'll catch is a boot, and that's if they're lucky."

* * *

**A/n:  
****constellation, **_n  
_a group of stars forming a recognizable pattern that is traditionally named after its apparent form or identified with a mythological figure.

Based on a tumblr prompt: "things you said under the stars and in the grass".


	21. kitchen, n

**kitchen, **_n_

**1.**  
"Well this is nice," he says. "Having dinner on an actual kitchen table like actual grown-ups, instead of on our laps. Izzy would be proud."

"Izzy would," Izzy says, slapping him gently upside the head and coming to stand beside Bobbi with her plate.

"She would be prouder if you had remembered to get _chairs_."

**2.**  
"This table is sturdier than it looks," he gasps as he rolls off her, hands still grasping her hips.

Bobbi rolls her eyes. "Probably not a good idea to tell Iz that when she comes over later– oh _shit_, she's reaching in ten minutes!"

He snatches a rough kiss and a glare as she leaps off the table like a cat and sprints to get dressed.

He calls after her, "I saw you smiling, I know you liked it!"

**3\. **  
"You're… You're pregnant? I'm going to be a daddy?"

**4.**  
"It wasn't your fault Bob, none of us could've seen it coming."

He scoots closer on the brand new kitchen chairs they'd finally gotten ("You're pregnant! I don't want you to have to stand to eat!"), but she pushes him away and buries her face in her hands.

The baby high chair sits unused and abandoned in a corner like an accusation.

**5.**  
"Bob, please, we have to talk about it."

She stares at him with cold eyes, stranger's eyes. His hand, reaching out to grab her, draws back.

"There's nothing to talk about."

Her voice breaks on 'nothing', hollow as her womb.

**6.**  
What are these, she asks, pain and realisation blooming in tandem in her eyes, in every line of her face. As if it hurt her as much as it had hurt him. Was still hurting him.

Lance?

She asks again, softly, and her voice trembles in that one syllable. Her use of his name, the first time in months, almost makes him cave and pull her in his arms.

He holds his arms stiffly at his side, knuckles white, and stares at her with cold eyes, stranger's eyes.

"Divorce papers."

His voice sounds as hollow as hers does when she says a last goodbye.

**7\. **  
"I should have stayed. I should have stayed. I should have stayed," he repeats into the mouth of his new lover, clutching it by its neck, a dozen more scattered at his feet.

He laughs and cries and laughs and cries and

* * *

Alternate ending:

(**8.**  
"Do you think she still likes her salmon done this way? Does she still like red wine?"

He pauses, speaking to thin air, but maybe she was here. You never knew with Iz.

"I wish you were here Iz; I need your help."

"I don't want to screw up with Bobbi again.)

* * *

**A/n:  
****kitchen, **_n  
_"The kitchen is the heart of the home."

Based on a tumblr prompt: "things you said at the kitchen table".


	22. deceit, n

**deceit**, _n_

"Please!"**  
**

The plea comes out as a hoarse gasp, and it takes a moment for him to recognise it as his own voice. His eyes dart anxiously to her prone form in the far corner of the room; he can't see how badly she's been hurt, he can't see her face.

He needs to hold her, needs to know she's alright.

He gropes blindly at the hem of their captor's shirt, "Please, please, please," he rasps, edging forward desperately on his knees, shackles tinted red from chaffing his wrists and ankles raw.

"Let her go. I'll do anything," he gasps.

"Anything?" The voice is sly and oily and he knows he's walking into a trap.

He glances at Bobbi again– blood is puddling dark and red beneath her head.

"Anything," he chokes out. "Let her go. Please."

The captor flicks his wrist, and two men drag her over to them, her head still hanging limp between her shoulders, her blood painting a trail on the concrete floor. Lance stumbles toward them as quickly as he can, all bruised knees and broken hands– _Bob– please–_

He reaches for her, and misses, and his stomach twists at the hollow sound of her head hitting the concrete. He gathers her to him as they drop her unceremoniously to the ground, cradling her in his arms.

"Bob– Bobbi–" he gasps. Her body is clammy to the touch. He pushes away her matted hair with broken fingers and surveys her injuries: her nose is broken, and judging from the bruising on her cheeks, so is at least one cheekbone. Her lips are bruised and swollen, her neck ringed purple with someone's fingerprints. His hand wanders down to her abdomen, where blood is flowing freely from a wound. He presses down on it shakily, trying–and failing– to staunch the flow– beneath the bruises her face is deathly pale.

"_Bob, please."_ She doesn't respond, not when he shakes her gently by the shoulders, not when he pleads her name. He reaches quivering fingers up to feel for her pulse; they're hot and sticky with her blood. He feels his knees go weak with relief when he feels a faint stutter beneath his fingers.

He cups her cheek, mindless of the bloody prints he leaves. "Please Bob, hang on– you can't–" he whispers tremulously. He draws her flaccid form up, presses a desperate kiss to her fevered brow. "You can't."

She stirs slightly and his heart leaps–

A click of someone's fingers, and she's ripped from his arms, tossed bodily out the creaking grating of the garage door.

He hears someone yelling, straining against shackles; chains rattling, a fight between a broken man and half a dozen guards.

"Shoot her," says a dismissive voice.

Lance goes numb. _No, no, no. No no no no no. _He turns toward the captor, a plea forming in his throat–

"And for goodness' sake," the man continues irritably, "Make sure you finish it this time."

_"No_," he manages; but the rest of the words don't make it past his lips. _You promised to let her go_, he thinks, pulling himself by his elbows inch by agonising inch toward the door. The guards don't stop him; they stand there jeering instead– there's no way he can make it to her before they close the doors.

The captor seems to hear what he hasn't said anyway. "I _did _let her go," he says lazily.

"I just never said I'd let her go _alive_."

* * *

**A/n:  
****deceit**, _n  
_the action or practice of deceiving someone by concealing or misrepresenting the truth

Based on a tumblr prompt: "things you said when you were desperate to save me".


	23. unsated, adj

**unsated**, _adj_

"Is this all you've got?" she mocks, sitting astride him, back arched and hips rolling like some exotic dancer, hand on his chest shoving him deeper into the mattress. He fists the sheets, biting his lip against the moan that she always knows how to elicit. She leans back and grinds and he gasps at the electricity shooting through his veins from the new angle. "Is this it?" she taunts, eyes cold and sharp as she stares daggers into him, fingers trailing down seductively, calculatingly, to grasp him where they met.

It was never just words with her.

"No," he bites out, digging his fingers into the curve of her bottom and shoving roughly at her shoulder. She doesn't anticipate his move and her shoulder gives– he flips them over, doesn't give her a second to catch her breath before he pounds into her, relishing her gasp and the way her nails scrape down his back. Her legs come up to hook behind his back, her hands scrabble for purchase against the sheets, the headboard–anything to give her leverage to push back– but he holds her wrists above her head in an iron grip, all the while pushing her toward the edge, lips set with grim satisfaction as she mewls and moans with each thrust.

Her stomach twists and her mind goes blank and she can feel her lips forming words; she struggles her hands free of his grip and fists her fingers in his hair. "Lance," she hears herself pant.

He growls and lifts her left leg higher, tilting her hips, and–and–

His name dies in her throat as he pulls out just before tipping her over; her hands groping blindly as she tries to pull him back, _just one more_, a desperate sound issuing from the back of her throat at the loss of contact. "Please," she hears herself whimper.

He presses a bruising kiss to her lips and she claws at him greedily, pulling him back toward her, hips jerking up in invitation. _"Please."_

He stumbles off the bed shakily, but his voice is steady when he grits, "That enough for you sweetheart?" He doesn't wait to see the hurt in her eyes before he leaves the room.

* * *

**A/n:  
unsated, **_adj  
_not satiated; not satisfied

Based on a tumblr prompt: "things you said after you kissed me".

Thanks Taylor for the title!

By far the smuttiest I've written for lancebob (although this doesn't even come _close_ to what the others have written...we'll see where things go), and one of the most painful. To me, anyway.  
Let me know what you think! :)


	24. disconsolate, adj

**disconsolate**, _adj_

"I won't try anything, I promise."

Mack eyes Coulson suspiciously, but Bobbi shakes her head slightly and he lets it go. They strap themselves in as the jet takes off; Bobbi charts a path back to the base and puts it on autopilot before coming back to sit across from Coulson. "What happened back there?" she asks, leaning forward on her knees. "The place was a mess."

She expects him to play the dumb card, to keep quiet until he can leverage something out of them in exchange for his information, so she's surprised when he starts talking. Beside her, Mack straightens up. "We were looking for Skye," Coulson starts, "Managed to shake Fitz's tail- that you put on him, I think- and made a deal with Ward." When Bobbi frowns, knowing the history behind Ward and Fitz, Coulson smiles grimly. "Sometimes you have to do what you don't want to to get things done." She wonders if he's also referring to her, if maybe he understands her choice.

"Ward had Bakshi, told us that he was 'happy to comply' or something or other, so we sent Bakshi in to infiltrate Hydra- with Mike, just in case they planned to double-cross us. We were expecting Hydra to take us to Lizst, one of Hydra's new heads, but instead they headed to Milwaukee, and we followed them there." His face takes on a pained expression, "Turns out they were looking for Skye," he says heavily, "We monitored the whole situation through Mike Peterson's eye," he explains when Bobbi looks at him questioningly. "And when we realised that, we went in too." Coulson shakes his head, looking down at his hands. "We were outmanned three to one and outgunned from the start. With everything that was happening…" He sighs and looks back up. "We had to cut our losses and leave, especially since we were one man down after Hunter got shot."

Bobbi's body jerks in response before she can control her reaction, and her chest constricts painfully; suddenly the air seems too thin and it's hard to breathe. She stares at Coulson, sees his mouth moving and knows he's still _saying _something; she frowns and tries to concentrate but the sounds won't form into coherent words and she can't absorb a word he's saying. Her whole body tingles and her head feels heavy and foggy and she can't think straight, her fingers go numb even as she digs her nails sharply into her calloused finger pads.

Coulson is saying something about Bakshi, and Ward, and betrayal, but she's hearing his words as if through a body of water, everything sounds distorted, and she can't pay attention because all she can think of doing right now is grabbing Coulson by his collar and demanding Lance's location. She clenches her fists and squares her jaw and tries to focus on breathing, on calming herself down, but then Mack covers her fist with a hand and looks at her with narrowed eyes, and she swallows a bitter laugh. _Don't lose it, _his eyes warn, and it's a choice again, it was always a choice, Lance had been right about that, and now Mack wants her to choose between being a professional, calm, cool, collected SHIELD agent and being Lance's… Lance's…

The lump in her throat grows and her heart squeezes painfully as she realises she doesn't even know what to call herself, what to call _them, _if anything at all. She shoves Mack's hand off, unbuckles her seat belt with fumbling hands, and paces the length of the jet once, twice, feeling Mack's reproachful stare and Coulson's knowing look on her. And now she knows why Coulson talked instead of keeping quiet: he was playing _her_, he wanted to see her reaction to the news about Hunter, and she knows she's giving herself away and revealing a big, vulnerable hole and that he could use it to get to her. Bobbi takes in a shaky breath, trying to calm down, trying to keep herself from demanding answers from Coulson, but she's revealed enough vulnerability-

She strides determinedly to the cockpit and locks herself in, and with her trembling hands, it takes a frustrated minute to dig the small, battered phone from a hidden pocket on her tactical suit. She breathes in deeply, _he's fine, he's fine, he's fine, it's just a flesh wound or something minor, he's okay, _and dials the only number on the phone. Her heart leaps when the phone rings, fist clenched tightly in her lap. But with every unanswered ring the knots in her stomach multiply, and it gets harder and harder to breathe. _No, _she refuses to believe- "Pick up, you jackass," she mutters to herself shakily, trying to mask her anxiety with anger, biting her lip to hold back tears. They'd agreed, a long time ago, that they would always pick up this phone, no matter when, no matter where- it was their way of checking in, knowing and _hearing _for themselves that the other person was alive. He'd promised to pick up.

The phone rings and rings and rings and rings. _No. Please, no._

He'd never broken a promise to her.

She jabs at the redial button again and again, tears blinding her eyes. "Dammit Hunter," she says wobbily, refusing to believe- refusing to think that- that- her stomach churns and she fights the urge to vomit, shivering violently and breaths coming in quick shallow pants; dark spots dance tauntingly in her vision, and her last thought is of Lance before she passes out.

-o-

She wakes up in a bunk, fingers wrapped around a coarse, warm fabric. _Standard issue SHIELD blankets, _she thinks, and she knows she's probably in a SHIELD bunk somewhere. Safe, then- no need to be on immediate alert and to leap out of bed. She stretches out, opening her eyes slowly to adjust to the light and disorientation, wondering what she's doing in a bunk instead of- It takes a moment before everything comes rushing back, and it's like a blow to the gut she wasn't anticipating, and she finally registers the hollow ache in her chest. The air rushes out of her lungs in a whoosh and she chokes back a sob, hand coming up to fist her mouth to mute the sounds. She bites down hard on her knuckles, relishing the pain, but it's not enough of a distraction, nothing will ever be, and she curls up on her side to face the wall, curls up around the ball of pain in her abdomen that threatens to engulf her completely, and _oh, I wish it would. _

The bed dips with someone's weight and she hardly notices, can't find the strength to ask them to _shove off _and leave her alone, but then- "You're awake." And it's a cold, monotonous voice, but it's a cold monotonous voice she _knows, _knows all too well, knows by heart, and she can't believe her ears as she turns around and jackknifes up in bed, blankets twisting around her legs. She registers the shock in his expression at her red-rimmed eyes for a split second before she flings herself at him, wrapping her arms around him tightly and pulling him _close, _burying her face in his neck and breathing his familiar scent in. Her hands fist the back of his shirt and her shoulders jerk with a sob, and his hands that were stiff and still before come up to wrap around her body. "I thought you were dead," she whispers against his neck, a half-sob raw with emotion. "Shhh, I'm here love," he comforts, one hand warm against her back and the other stroking her hair. "I'm fine." She lets him hold her, and he lets her hold him, until her breathing calms.

She pulls back just enough to see his face, and her heart skips when his eyes soften and hand comes up to thumb away her tears. "I'm fine love," he reassures gently. "Why didn't you pick up the phone?" she asks, a half-accusation, _were you too angry with me to even tell me you were alive _on the tip of her tongue; but any anger in her voice is countered by the fact that her hands are still fisted tightly in his shirt. "I was in the med pod, they were stitching me up, I couldn't."

She nods, and finally releases him. "Let me see." He searches her face for a moment and lifts his shirt; a neat bandage circles his torso. "How bad was it?" she asks quietly, reaching to touch the wound. Her fingers brush against his bare stomach and he flinches back, and her heart constricts. _Right then, _she thinks, swallowing, _it's like that. _She draws her hand back and smiles tightly, apologetically, and he frowns. "You just gave me a shock," he says, "Your hands are cold." He takes her hand and presses it gently against his abdomen against the bandage- his hand is warm and comforting and familiar, and she looks from his stomach back up at him, not daring to hope. "I couldn't die, I'd never hear the end of it from you," he says, smiling, and it's the smile she knows so well, the one he only ever has for her, and his eyes are warm and sweet and _home, _and she feels as if the weight that has been suffocating her since he left has lifted. _Maybe… maybe it wasn't too late._

"Yeah Hunter, the first time I'm not there to tell you 'don't die out there', you go and get yourself shot?" she teases, and he growls and pushes her hand away in mock offense, before lacing his fingers with hers and pulling her back in, his other hand warm in the small of her back. He presses a chaste kiss to her lips, tugging her close for a hug, burying his face in her hair. "See? That's why I need you with me."

* * *

**A/n:  
****disconsolate**, _adj  
_without consolation or solace; hopelessly unhappy; inconsolable  
synonym: heartbroken

Intended as an episode tag for 2x18. _But _also fills a tumblr prompt: "I thought you were dead." (just really trying to fill prompts here)

Shoutout to Emily for the phone idea! :)


	25. coerce, v

**coerce, **_v_

She tilts her head back as he mouths the column of her throat, sucking gently at her pulse. Her hands come up to frame his face, her body cradled between his legs, hers hooked behind his back. He shifts so that they lean sideways against the back of the couch. She pulls back gently, thumbing his jaw. "Lance," she says, smiling softly, eyes warm and full with words and emotions her pride won't let her voice.

"Bob," he says, and her heart clenches– she knows this voice, she knows what's coming.

He doesn't disappoint. "Tell me," he pleads quietly, hand rubbing circles into her back, eyes searching her face.

She stares at him for a moment, hurt that he would use her emotions to leverage secrets from her, and something in his face shutters. Right then, that was her cue. She ignores the familiar gut-twist and clambers off him, back to him, taking a deep silent breath to hold back the burn of tears.

"You're upset," he says from the couch. She hears the _whoosh_ of his breath that tells her he's trying to control his anger. "How can you be upset?" he says in angry disbelief. She hears the shift of the couch, and she has a second to control her breathing before his hand circles her arm tightly and spins her around.

"You did the same thing to me," he accuses, "You've done it hundreds of times since we've met– that was the whole _reason _we met–how is this any different!" She refuses to meet his eyes, fixating on a stain on the couch instead. He shakes her arm frustratedly. "How come_you _can do it and expect me to be alright with it–"

She clenches her jaw to stop it from trembling.

He takes it the wrong way, like he always does, and barks a bitter laugh. He lets go of her abruptly; the action nearly makes her stumble, but she catches herself.

"Never gonna let me in, are you."

She steels herself against the pain in his voice.

"Never mind."

When she looks up, he's gone.

* * *

**A/n:  
****coerce, **_v  
_persuade an unwilling person to do something

Based on the tumblr prompt: "things you said that made me feel like shit".


	26. tender, adj

**tender, **_adj_

Bobbi feels the bed dip behind her and a warm arm drapes over her side. She tucks the arm flush against her body and hears a soft chuckle in her ear. "Don't say it," she warns sleepily.

"Say what?" he replies innocently, and leans in to press a kiss to her cheek when she gives a warning growl. "Wouldn't think of it," he sighs, breath hot against her neck, and snuggles closer. "I love it when you sleep without a shirt." A cross between a whine and gasp catches at the back of her throat as his thumb traces the sensitive flesh along the lace edge of her bra.

She smacks his hand away, but doesn't stop him when his hand sneaks right back. "You know how hot this one makes me," she says, guiding his hand down to rest on her belly, where their precious is growing steadily. "I'll get the air-conditioning fixed tomorrow. Promise." Bobbi twists with some difficulty and plants a noisy kiss on his lips. "Thank you."

She struggles to turn over to face Lance, and he tugs the covers back up to cover her bump. _The baby'll get cold_, he protests when she pushes it off. _It's in my womb Lance, it's temperature-controlled in there, I'm the one burning up._ They pretend-quarrel a little longer, _you're going to wake her with all that arguing, _he says, until she retorts _I'm the one carrying the baby_– her trump card– and he grumbles and lets it slide, covering her belly with his hand instead.

She pillows her head on her arm, lying on her side. "So."

Lance tucks her hair behind her ear and smiles that dopey grin he's reserved for only her. "So, what?" he asks.

"It seems you're pretty good with fitzsimmon's kid." She raises a brow. "When did you get so good?"

He tugs her closer, hand in the small of her back. "I told you I've been practising," he mumbles, mouth moving against her lips, nose nudging hers. "But you wouldn't believe me." He pouts and she laughs, using a finger to tug the the corners of his mouth back up. "I want to be the best daddy ever," he says, punctuating each word with a kiss. She throws her head back in laughter at his kisses– she loves it when he does that– and he takes the opportunity to ravage the column of her neck.

The gasp and moan that issues from her throat surprises them both, and they pull apart, her looking abashed and him smirking like a cat that had gotten the cream. She mutters something about everything being way more sensitive, and he laughs and pulls her in to kiss her forehead instead, running his hand over the curve of her stomach. He trails his hand up her body, smiling at her gasp when he passes her breasts, and gently nudges her head up to look at him.

"I promised you wouldn't have to do this alone," he says solemnly, keeping his gaze on her. Her eyes soften in the dim light, and her hand reaches up to lace with his.

"I intend to keep that promise."

* * *

**A/n:  
****tender**,_ adj  
_showing gentleness and affection

Based on the tumblr prompt: "things you said at 1am".


	27. obdurate, adj

**obdurate, **_adj_

Lance grabs her elbow and gently steers her toward the brand-new couch. "Just sit down, have a rest!" He pats the clear plastic still covering it for emphasis. "Leave the moving to me–"**  
**

Bobbi shrugs off his arm and practically springs back up on her feet, tugging the hem of her dress down. ("Not. A. Word," she'd growled when she'd pulled the dress on earlier. He laughed and shot her a questioning look; he loved her in dresses but she hardly ever wore them when she could help it. "I couldn't button my shorts," she mutters, scowling, "and it's way too hot for anything longer than that." She prods the C-shaped curve of her belly. "This kid is making me fat," she whines. "He'd better be damned cute.")

"I'm _fine _Lance," she rolls her eyes as she makes her way out the door to the moving truck. He stares after her helplessly. "I want to help, I can lift more than you–"

"What– no no no no no," he says, hurrying after her. He spins her around by the shoulders and she sighs and rolls her eyes again. "If you roll them anymore they're gonna roll right out of your eyes sweetheart," he smiles.

Bobbi gathers her hair into a ponytail, huffing frustratedly. "Lance. I can help," she says firmly, setting her jaw._You can't stop me_, her eyes say, but he's well-versed in Bobbi-speak: the hesitation and sadness in her eyes tell him she wants to feel useful. He searches her face and his eyes dart down to the swell beneath her sundress for a moment before he gives in. "Fine," he says, hand brushing down her arm to caress her stomach. "But only the light boxes, like utensils, and I want you to stop if you're tired–"

She's carried a box into the house before he's done with his sentence.

And it wasn't a light one either.

-o-

"I'm _sure _somewhere it's considered domestic abuse to let your heavily pregnant wife move heavy boxes. I mean, you're 8 months pregnant Bob, what if you went into labour?!" he exclaims, nudging a box further into the house with the toe of his sneaker. "What if the neighbours call the cops on us? Do you really want to come down every day for conjugal visits?" he smirks. "Or bring our son to see his father in prison?"

"Stop being so dramatic Lance," she says irritably, panting slightly as she leans against the last of the boxes. "I'm not in labour. If I was it would be because you _nagged _me into it." She's not going to admit that it's way more difficult to carry heavy boxes– or anything, actually– when a belly the size of a large beach ball and weighing a small pumpkin was wedged between her and the boxes; isn't going to admit that the resulting awkward angle had put so much strain on her back that she feels like it's about to break. The last time she had told him her back hurt, he had refused to let her carry as much as a teacup. She hated feeling so useless.

"Without my help you'd have taken twice as long, at least, and you know it." She hides a grimace and flaps a hand against her neck pointlessly, "It's so hot."

He hands her a bottle of water and she takes it gratefully, taking a long sip. "Okay," she says after a moment. "Let's start moving these into the rooms–"

"Whoa whoa whoa," Lance pushes his aching body up from where he had been sprawled on the still-covered-in-plastic couch. He comes up to her and rests a hand on either side of her belly, examining it anxiously before moving his gaze up to her face.

"The way you are with my belly– anyone would think that's all you wanted me for, to grow your baby," she mutters, and he grins widely and plants a fat, wet kiss on her lips. "That, and I love you, remember?" She rolls her eyes at him again, but smiles in spite of herself.

"What's the rush love? Take it easy. We don't have to move everything in a day!" He pulls her close so that their baby is sandwiched between them, and laces his hands behind her back, albeit with some difficulty– _she really is _very _pregnant_, he thinks, frowning.

"But if we can, why shouldn't we?" She glares at him, "If we left everything till 'tomorrow' we'll still be unpacking when the baby turns three!" She softens when she sees the genuine worry on his face. "I feel absolutely fine Lance," she says reassuringly. "Now, grab a box." She shrugs him off, shooting daggers when he chuckles at her bossiness and asks if this is nesting behaviour. Then he starts panicking because "don't dogs start their nesting behaviour when they're about to go into labour?!", and she can't help rolling her eyes again. "I'm pregnant, Lance, not an invalid," she says through gritted teeth. She bends low to pick up a large box marked 'KITCHEN' in Lance's messy writing and suddenly she feels a kick in her gut and the air rushes out of her lungs in a gasp. She winces in pain, biting back a cry, and her hands fly to her belly. The box falls to the floor in a noisy crash of metal pots.

"What is it!" Lance is by her side before she can even straighten up, "I told you not to lift anything– are you alright– what's wrong– what hurts–" He practically carries her to the couch ("Let me down you're going to drop me–" "No I won't–_oof!_") and helps her onto the seat as he continues talking without even taking breath, hands running all over her belly anxiously. "Is it the baby– what hurts– _answer me– shit_ the baby coming isn't it, dammit Bob I told you to just rest–"

Ignoring his frantic fussing, Bobbi leans back in a rustle of plastic, taking slow deep breaths and cupping her admittedly rather large bump. She lets a breath out in a whoosh, a serene smile on her face, and reaches a hand down to curl her fingers in Lance's hair, who is by now kneeling by the couch staring up at her with frightened eyes. "What is it Bob? Where does it hurt? Should I call Simmons?"

Bobbi laughs. "No– it's okay, it's nothing– no, _really_– Lance– your son just kicked me in the kidney."

* * *

**A/n:  
****obdurate, **_adj  
_stubbornly refusing to change one's opinion or course of action.

Based on the tumblr prompt: "things you said through your teeth".

Happy belated Star Wars Day! :)

I'm starting a new series soon, maybe 3-4 chapters/ short stories long. I'm not including it in here because the timeline here is fluid, but the thing I have in mind follows a linear timeline. Keep a lookout for it! :)


	28. regret, v n

**regret, **_v; n_

"Hunter! Hey-"

Lance slows his steps and turns around, raising a quizzical brow as Fitz stumbles to a halt in front of him. "What's up mate?" He frowns as he takes in the young agent's panicked expression.

"There's a- ah- a missing- a Quinjet, it's gone missing, and Kara, Agent 33, she's gone missing too," Fitz gets out, wringing his hands in frustration as his stutter becomes more pronounced, like it was wont to do whenever he got anxious.

Lance's frown deepens and he starts walking in the direction Fitz came from. "The woman with the creepy May face? You think she _stole _it? What, to look for Ward?" Fitz shakes his head, gesticulating. "Easy there mate, calm down- so she stole the Quinjet, we can track her later, after Gonzales and the rest report back from Afterlife, it's not that big a deal-"

"It's Bobbi- Agent Morse," Fitz bursts in, and Lance's heart stops. He doesn't realise he's grabbed Fitz's arm in an iron grip or hear himself rasp out quick-fire questions that Fitz has no answers to, and it's only when he barges into Coulson's office where the rest are waiting solemn-faced that he vaguely remembers he'd decided not to interfere in her affairs. He barely manages to slip on a nonchalant facade that fools no one, and locks his elbows by his side to stop himself from grabbing the director and demanding answers.

He leans back against the nearest desk, nails digging into the wood, and opens his mouth only to realise he doesn't know what to ask, to realise he's terrified of the answer. Lump caught in his throat and heart racing, he turns toward Coulson, and catches a fleeting glimpse of a sympathetic look on May's face. Part of him registers her expression, and detachedly surmises that if May, who never bothered to hide her dislike for him, was showing concern, the situation must be... He jerks his head toward the screen as Coulson opens an image.

His stomach clenches at the picture of his unconscious ex-wife lying trussed up and bound tightly with tape on the floor of the Quinjet. He forces his body to relax, conscious of the eyes on him, and squints at the screen. He makes out a dark bruise flowering on her cheekbone and a network of purple lines spreading under her cheek, and... and... A small, round bruise on her forehead. He tightens his grip on the table edge and leans forward, dread spreading through him. His tongue feels heavy and numb and foreign when he tries to speak. "She-"

"She's not dead," Simmons interjects, sensing his distress. She purses her lips, clearly struggling to remain detached- as far as she was concerned, Bobbi wasn't on their side, was part of 'real' SHIELD, but she had still been her friend. "They shot her with an ICER."

The laugh Lance lets out sounds more like a gasp, and he's glad for his grip on the table as his knees buckle in relief. He tries for a careless throwaway tone, "Well, she _is_ the hell-beast, it's gonna take more than-"

"They shot her several times," Simmons continues, and the slight tremor in her voice and worry in her eyes belie the gravity of the situation. Lance's smile slips off his face. "I believe Kara- Agent 33-" She takes a deep breath and lets it out quickly, her voice becoming precise and clinical. "I believe she stole one of our newer prototypes with an untested form of dentrotoxin, it's completely new, the one that we tweaked to be more dangerous, we haven't tested it on subjects yet, it was locked away securely, I don't know how-" she winds up rambling, slightly frantic, voice rising in pitch and frequency.

Fitz comes up behind her and places a hand on her shoulder, and she looks at his hand for a moment before calming. Lance watches them, a dull ache starting at the base of his stomach. _I used to do that for Bob, _he thinks. Then Simmons is swallowing and wringing her hands, not unlike how Fitz had done earlier. "This dentrotoxin is lethal in higher doses." She points toward the screen. "See those purple lines on her face? They're normally- they're not supposed to be this intense or this spread out. It could be the new dentrotoxin effects, they could be different from the ones we've been using, maybe it looks different on human subjects, but I think Bobbi- Agent Morse..." She falters for a moment. "I think she might have dentrotoxin-poisoning. She needs an antidote, within the next six hours, or..." She swallows. "Or the toxin might be fatal."

-o-

Lance finds himself himself methodologically strapping on his bulletproof vest and holster later, having no recollection about how he'd even gotten to his bunk. He makes to leave, and his eyes fall on his keyring, carelessly strewn atop a chest of drawers. He picks it up slowly, and the realisation that he could lose her for good, for _ever _this time, hits him like a freight truck. The air rushes out of his lungs and he collapses onto the bed, elbows on knees, keys cupped in his hands like a prayer. "God, Bob," he whispers through gritted teeth, pressing them to his forehead, eyes screwed shut against tears. "The one time I don't tell you not to die out there, you go and get yourself kidnapped."

His chest constricts as the guilt and regret overwhelm him for a moment; he thinks about how she'd kept trying to explain herself to him, how he'd pushed her away each time- he'd refused to speak to her or look at her, much less touch her, and made a show of how unwilling he was to be in the same room as her. He should have listened, given her a chance to explain; should've let her know that no matter what, he would always find his way back to her- they always did. He should've been more understanding, should've, should've should've… He clenches his fist around the keys, thumbing the engraving on the keyring. Dentrotoxin poisoning. He was no biochemist and didn't have the slightest clue how these things worked, but if Simmons was afraid...

It takes him a few minutes and a few tries but he manages to swallow the lump in his throat, tries to get into the right frame of mind for the mission. He didn't know how he'd managed to convince Coulson to let him join the mission- threaten? Cajole? Plead?- but he's sure of what he has to do. Fly in. Save Bobbi. Kill Ward. He didn't mention the last part to Coulson, but he has a feeling they wouldn't be too objectionable about it.

He tucks the keys safely in the drawer, buried beneath the sweatshirt she loved and that he'd spitefully, childishly, stolen back from her bunk after they'd argued. He pulls the door open and yelps when Fitz skids right past his door. "Hunter!" Lance's stomach drops to his boots: there's a new note of panic in Fitz's voice. "They ah- they injected her with something, it's a...video, a umm, a live feed- she's being injected and she's convulsing- her mouth, it's foaming, we have to hurry!"

His heart clenches painfully as he wills his feet to run after Fitz; he doesn't let himself think about the implications, about whether… No. She wouldn't. She couldn't. He's on autopilot as he straps himself in, a constant refrain the only thought on his mind: _don't die out there, don't die out there, don't die out there. Sweetheart, don't die out there. _

_Please._

* * *

**A/n:  
regret**_, v; n  
_to feel sorrow or remorse for (an act, fault, disappointment, etc.)  
Origin:  
_v._  
to look back with distress or sorrowful longing; to grieve for on remembering;  
from Old French _regreter_: to long after, bewail, lament someone's death

_n.  
_pain or distress in the mind at something done or left undone

Episode tag for 2x20 in reply to a prompt asking for Lance's reaction to finding out Bobbi's been captured/ wanting to kill Ward. Don't feel like this does it justice, tbh...

And kudos to people on Twitter who made me realise that Lance didn't tell Bobbi not to die out there, and. Well.


	29. cheek, v

**cheek**, _v_

Her sense of smell returns first, and it's a familiar scent, almost tangible, and it warms her chest. She wonders if maybe she's dead and in heaven, because if this was hell, well, it didn't seem too bad at the moment. She shifts, and every bone and muscle in her body protests. "Don't move love," mumbles a familiar voice. A hand smoothes her hair from the crown, she wants to tell them that the movement is giving her a headache and making her nauseated, but it's too much effort to open her mouth, and her throat feels like she's swallowed gravel.

It takes a heroic effort for her to open her eyes, and her vision is blurry. _Maybe I need glasses_, she thinks, _that's going to be inconvenient on missions. _The voice calls out, but she can't make out the sounds, just detects the note of urgency in the- his- voice. The anxiety makes her anxious too, and it must reflect somewhere because suddenly she hears a hurried beeping and warm hand slips into hers, clutching tightly. _There's the scent again. _She wants to breathe it in, inhale it until her lungs are full of just that smell, but it's getting difficult to breathe. She catches whiffs as a body leans over hers and a calloused hand cups her cheek; it's familiar, and comforting, and with each shallow, frantic breath, she realises it reminds her of _home. _

When she next wakes, it's to the sensation of someone stroking the back of her hand. Her lids are still too heavy, so she concentrates on her breathing, trying to clear her head and decipher sounds. She isolates them in her mind, a method she'd learned long ago to calm herself down in unfamiliar situations. Beeping- machines. _Machines. _A vague memory of being hooked up to one, of being bound and tortured, rise to the forefront of her mind, and she jerks her hand out and away from the one holding hers. A jolt shoots up her arm at the movement and she winces in pain.

"Bobbi," she hears, and the relief in the voice is palpable. "You're awake- thank God." She feels something warm and soft pressed against her forehead for a long moment- _lips, _she registers absently. "Can you hear me?"

She turns her head toward the voice, neck protesting, and cracks an eye open with difficulty, cringing at the bright lights. Eyes watering, a man finally comes into view. Scruffy and with puppy eyes, yes, she knows this one. Her hand still in his tightens around his a little. "Sweetheart," he says, and his voice cracks. He lifts a hand and gently cups her cheek, thumbing away wetness on her cheeks. "Don't cry, I'm here. I promise."

He leans forward, kisses the tip of her nose. "That's the only part of you that isn't bruised," he chuckles, but worry is etched deep in every line of his face. "I promise Bob, I'm not going anywhere. God knows you can't do without me, I don't tell you not to die out there and you end up practically dead-"

Fragments of memories trickle into consciousness: raised voices, hardened looks, shunned bodies, and she realises she's missed him. An ache starts in her chest, and she stares at him as he speaks, forcing herself not to blink, committing the familiar planes of his face to memory. Her eyes water again at the effort, and he scoots forward in dismay, the chair making a screeching sound against the floor that makes her screw her eyes shut. "Bob- Sweetheart, don't cry-" He bends over her and wipes away the tear with a thumb, and his lips follow the action, hot against her cold cheek. Ever so carefully, he cups her jaw, brushing his lips over her chapped ones. "I'm sorry. For everything," he says, breath hot against her lips. "Don't cry."

It's too much effort to roll her eyes, so she tries to swallow and rasps, "Don't flatter yourself, the lights are too bright."

Her lip splits and stings when she grins at his familiar huff of frustrated annoyance, but it's worth it.

* * *

**A/n:  
****cheek, **_v  
__British, informal. _To speak impertinently to

Episode tag for 2x20, from Bobbi's POV, as requested by anon. More light-hearted :)

Two updates in a day! :D Mostly because it wouldn't make sense to post these any later since Tuesday is right around the corner. I'm gonna have serious withdrawal symptoms after the finale guys... here's to hoping Lancebob really do make up (and out?).


	30. despair, n v

**despair, **_n; v_

The door clicks open, her heart stops. _No, no no no, don't_\- The toe of his boot comes into view, and instantly she strains as much as she can against her bonds- _Lance, no_\- Another layer of bruises form over her arms, and she hopes against hope that-

Something white hot grazes over the top of her shoulder, and she screams soundlessly against her gag, throat raw and cheeks wet. Distantly, she wonders if this is what it must be like to watch your heart break. Her stomach plunges as his mouth forms an 'O', body curving with impact, and his hands fly up to his abdomen. His gun clatters to the ground, forgotten. He looks up and their eyes meet for a moment, and in that glance she sees love and relief and goodbye in his eyes, before he's crumpled to the ground, curled up around his stomach, a pool of dark red quickly spreading and seeping into his clothes.

She screams his name, but all that escapes is a broken sound; she struggles forward with all her weight, each jolt of the heavy chair like a shard of metal stabbing into her leg._ Lance, no, you can't, don't, please_, please. Panic kicks her in the gut and her heart pounds a drumroll in her chest, so fast that her head spins and she can't catch her breath. She chokes back a cry as she pulls against the cuffs- _he's not moving, I can't see if he's breathing_\- She tries to tilt the chair forward; if she could just _touch _him, maybe-

A shadow falls over his body and fear pushes bile up her throat. She looks up, desperate and tense and _please don't let it be Ward or Kara or_\- And it's May, and she's staring at her in horror, but it's not _her _who's important, it's not her who's- who's- She pulls against her bonds, wrenching the chair violently, screaming brokenly against the cloth and jerking her chin towards Lance. May follows her tearful gaze to the body at her feet and drops to her knees, turning Lance over and _oh God he's not breathing_. May pushes his bloody hands away and presses down hard on the bullet wound. "Dammit Lance, don't die on me," Bobbi hears her mutter. She picks up her talkie with her free hand, and moments later heavy footsteps signal another agent's entrance.

Bobbi shoves past the other agent as soon as he loosens her bonds, pulling down her gag and stumbling forward out of the chair only to fall with a crash to her knees. A paralysing pain shoots up her leg, up her spine, and she cries out in agony, nearly blacking out from the intensity of the pain. She hears May calling her name in alarm, reaching out for her, but she pushes her arm away and crawls towards Lance, keeping her weight on her other leg.

"Hunter- Lance- no, wake up, you _have _to wake up," she sobs, her voice a broken rasp, breaths coming in convulsive gasps. She moves to cradle his head while May continues to apply pressure on his wound and radios for help. "Lance, _please_," she begs, cupping his jaw, his head, his neck; her thumb brushes against his scruff by his lips, and her broken and bloody hand coming up to caress his face. "_Lance_," she pleads despairingly. May must have applied slightly more pressure, perhaps in attempt to staunch the bleeding, perhaps in an attempt to rouse him, but he stirs slightly, and she cries out in relief when she sees his familiar brown eyes. "I'm here, I'm here, I've got you," she whispers, palm against his cheek. "Stay with me Lance, _please_."

"B-Bob-" he murmurs, lips twisting up for a split moment before his eyes slide shut.

"No- stay with me Lance, I can't- please, no- No!" She shakes him gently, distraught. "_Lance_-" Gentle hands pull her back while an agent lifts him- _Be careful_, she says sharply, hand clutching his limp one as he lifts him.

She stands with them shakily, and almost passes out when she forgets and tries to straighten her injured leg. The agent strides off quickly with Lance, and she lets his hand slip through her fingers, feeling a pang of loss. She clenches her left fist, the one that was holding his hand, as if to hold on to some essence of him, and to stop herself from following after them. She watches, weight on her good leg, until they are out of sight. May grips her arm tightly and she turns and sags against the older agent, completely drained.

-o-

"Hunter's tough, he'll be alright," comes a voice from behind her. May rests a hand on her shoulder comfortingly, and she nods in acknowledgement and thanks before turning back to Lance's still body, hooked up to all sorts of tubes and wires deftly inserted by Simmons the moment they had landed. She presses his knuckles to her lips, bloodshot eyes fixed on his pale face. "Besides," continues May, and she turns her head to face her, surprised to see a wry smile on her face. "Hunter told me you've shot him before. If he could recover from _that_, I'm sure he'll recover from this."

"_That _was an accident, and it was a _blank_\- I'm going to kill him when he wakes up."

* * *

**A/n:  
despair**_, n; v_

_noun  
_the complete loss or absence of hope

_verb  
_lose or be without hope_  
_

AU episode tag for 2x22, requested by an anon on tumblr.


	31. ignition, n

**ignition, **_n_

(Based on this car: repairablecars-forsale(.com)/pics/1967_GTO_Project_Used_Car_Blue(.jpg) Remove all the parentheses!)

She can feel a migraine starting in the base of her skull. "Hunter. What is this," she grits out, trying to give him a chance to explain himself. Maybe it was the neighbours'. Maybe he was car-sitting. Maybe-

"It's our new car, a 1967 GTO," he says triumphantly, glancing over the car fondly and patting the hood. He jerks his hand back a second later when the car gives an ominous creak. She wonders if maybe they have different definitions of the word 'new'. "Yeah. I bought it," he says, grinning widely as he turns to her. "They towed it back here because the tyres aren't… uh, the tyres aren't working," he moves past the detail hastily, and she feels the migraine spread to the front of her head. "Isn't she a beauty?"

Bobbi takes a deep breath in through her nose, taking her time to blink and try to calm down before opening her eyes and looking over the car on a long exhale. The car is a dusty blue, or at least the hood is- and it's dusty because of _actual _dust, and not a shade of colour. The rest of the car is a faded cross between red and orange, and the whole car is covered in rust. She takes a cautious step forward, one hand resting on her protruding belly and another supporting her aching back, and realises that the headlights are blown out, the driver's side mirror is hanging by wires, all the tires are punctured, and best of all- there is no windscreen.

"What. In the. Hell. Is this," she deadpans, a deadly smile on her lips. She can't even look at him because she might fly at him, pregnant belly and all, so without waiting for him to respond, she walks round the side of the car slowly. _Well, at least the glass in the windows are still intact,_ she thinks, trying to remain optimistic, and then she realises some young punk was probably a little too handy with spray paint, because on the other side of the car, 'REAL GTO' is sprayed onto the window. Real classy.

She circles back to the front where Lance is standing, looking a little scared but mostly defiant. She presses a hand against her stomach, wishing for the millionth time that they made realistic-looking pregnant bellies that _weren't _actually that heavy and that didn't _chafe _her skin and itch so. The weight and the heat and the itch are making her short-tempered, but she thinks this time, she's entirely justified. "It's a car," he says mutinously, folding his arms across his chest.

"I asked you to get a car, a nice, normal car with a _little _rust _at the most _so it wouldn't stick out around here. The implication was that it would be in _working condition-"_

"Well I got the 'rust' part right-"

"In what _world _is that a _little rust _Hunter, the car is _covered _in rust-"

"And it'll look _perfectly _normal and work _perfectly _fine after they fix it up, I already paid the deposit on that-"

"You _what_?" Bobbi just manages to stop herself from screeching, and her fake belly jolts from a fake kick. She swallows a growl of frustration- what happened to the good old days where they used a balloon instead of a mechanised fake belly? She winces, and a low voice in the hidden comms in her ear sounds, "Calm down Agent Morse." She glares at Hunter since he's the only person she can glare at; she couldn't very well hiss back into the comms that her husband was a _complete idiot_. Too bad he wasn't a fake husband as well. She wonders if that says more about him, or about her and her poor judgment in spouses.

She takes a deep breath. "What did you do, Hunter?" she asks sweetly, voice dripping with venom.

He gulps visibly. "They had a pretty good deal on the car," he hedges, "Just half of the money we'd budgeted for a car."

She nods, "And what about the other half? We have that at least, right? So later I can go down with you and pick out an actual-"

Hunter clears his throat, shifting awkwardly and taking a step back from her. "Actually the other half went on repairs for the car."

She smiles again, sickly sweet, and steps toward him. "No- don't you _dare _walk away from me Hunter- I _swear, _if I were actually pregnant you'd send me into labour," she snarls quietly so that only he can hear her. "We are-"

"Well, then I would have a car to send you to the hospital," he interjects with a grin, and yelps as she smacks him on the arm. "We are _undercover_, you jackass," she hisses, "We're supposed to blend in, not stick out- how on earth are we going to blend in in a nice suburban neighbourhood with that _wreck_?!"

"Hey, it's a pretty nice car, I mean," he peers over her shoulder to assess the car, "Once we've gotten the windows and windscreen fixed, changed the tires, a fresh coat of paint... " He turns back to her, "I see the _potential _in things Bob," he says loftily, and she's this close from slapping that stupid grin off his face.

"And then we'll have a 1967 GTO in a neighbourhood where people drive brand new SUVs," she snapped. "That wreck has to go." She turns away from him and waddles- _God if this was what being pregnant felt like, she never wanted to be actually pregnant_\- to the car, and pulls open a creaking door that practically falls off at her touch (and she didn't even wrench it open). She sits gingerly and awkwardly in the dirty driver's seat, grimy steering wheel pressed uncomfortably tight against her belly, and fiddles with old wires while trying not to think about what manner of people had been in this seat doing God knows what before her. Hunter comes around to her side. "Bob, what are you doing," he asks warningly. Her task done, she dusts her hands quickly and nudges him away with her foot, using him as a support to get out of the car.

"It's an old car. You didn't check the engine properly. It overheated somehow and caught fire, it was too late for us to do anything about it," she says calmly after pulling him a safe distance away, eyebrow raised, daring him to challenge her.

"That was a _perfectly _good car Bob!" He tries to push past her, "I _liked _that car!" But she grabs his arm in a vice-like grip, and he stares with his jaw agape as the hood starts emitting putrid smoke. "You just set my car on fire," he says, half in shock and half in anger." She just smirks at him. "We're undercover Hunter, and you know I'm right. Come on, get your pregnant wife away from the smoke. Not good for the baby and all." She pats her stomach and starts waddling back toward the house, muttering under her breath, fighting a smile.

"I heard that!" he says, jogging after her; even while toting a belly the size and weight of a sandbag, she still had amazingly quick strides. "I do not have terrible taste," he pulls her in for a quick peck, hand on the small of her back, as the first lick of flames start to engulf the hood. "After all, I picked you."

She rolls her eyes but smiles. "Touché." She tugs at his hand. "Come on, we've got to call the fire department and pretend we're terrified."

"...I still can't believe you _torched _my car."

* * *

**A/n:  
****ignition, **_n  
_the action of setting something on fire or starting to burn;  
the mechanism for bringing about ignition in an internal-combustion engine, typically activated by a key or switch [like in a car]_  
_

Loving the wordplay on the title, it's my favourite to date :D

Sort of an episode tag, based on a prompt by anon, about Bobbi setting Hunter's 1967 GTO on fire.

This also fulfills one of my word prompts, 'mutilation', by Wholocked221 on FF. Not quite what you expected I think, but hope you enjoy it all the same! And sorry it took so long (I got the prompt in March)!

**mutilation, **_n  
_the action of mutilating or being mutilated;  
the infliction of serious damage on something


	32. progeny, n

**progeny, **_n_

A tinny whimper sounds over the baby monitor. Lance stirs, a grunt caught in his throat, but he doesn't wake. She's wide awake though, listening carefully for another sound with her eyes screwed shut. _Please, please go back to sleep baby. _Her back is killing her and no position will ease the ache in her lower back; she hasn't dared to shift too often for fear of waking Lance, he was grumpy when he woke in the middle of the night and she already had one baby to soothe. She imagines his scowl if she called him a baby, and swallows a chuckle. Her ears prick up when the infant whimpers again, and she wonders if this sensitivity to their cries is a universal curse borne by all mothers. Her mind drifts to Clint*, and she reminds herself that it's a blessing to hear at all.

The whimpering grows louder, and she debates the merits of making Lance soothe him before it becomes a full-blown cryfest, but the cries change and she sighs- it's his hungry cry. Wishing she had expressed a bottle or two of milk so Lance could do the feedings for a change, she rolls on her side and reaches for the bedside alarm. Yep, 3.15AM, right on time. _Well baby, at least you're predictable, not like your Daddy. _She nudges Lance's arm off her waist and slinks as gently as she can to the edge of the bed, trying not to wake him, but it appears their son's cries have woken him too, because his hand curls back around her abdomen and tugs her back into bed properly, pulling her flush against his chest, his breath hot against the back of her neck. "Don't go," he mumbles sleepily, slipping his hand under her shirt. "Kid needs to learn his mummy belongs to me."

She laces her fingers atop his, curled tight around his warm one, pressed against the skin of her stomach. It was hard to imagine that a few short weeks ago, it had been taut and swollen with a child growing beneath her heart; she still feels empty sometimes, she misses the feeling. But it's not something she'll tell Lance any time soon, he wouldn't waste any time in trying to impregnate her again. As if he'd read her thoughts, his thumb sweeps the smooth underside of her breast, and she moans and backs into him, his chin nestled in the crook of her neck. She shifts his hand to cup her breast instead, and allows herself to relax for a moment, eyes drifting shut in contentment, cocooned in darkness and blankets and him. He's evidently more awake than he lets on, because she feels his smirk against her shoulder, and he trails sloppy open-mouthed kisses up her neck, pausing to lavish attention at the corner just beneath her jaw until she lets out a reluctant moan and arches against him. "Lance…" she warns, as the baby starts crying more effortfully. He sighs loudly and moves away. "This kid is getting all your attention," he pouts.

"Always wanting attention- he definitely got that from you," she sighs in faux frustration, a smile giving her away, "What am I going to do with the both of you boys?" She twists and plants a whisper of a kiss at the corner of his lips and slides out of bed, shivering at the loss of warmth. "No, don't-" he says, throwing off the blankets with a yawn and sitting up. "I'll do it love, you get back in bed." Her heart warms and a smile curves her lips; she'd been worried that Lance would only turn up to play with the child and leave the actual child-rearing to her- in fact, she'd cried about it several times closer to the due date (she blames hormones), even though he had been attentive from the start and she'd no reason to think so. She leans across the bed and pushes him back down, hand coming up to run through his tousled hair.

"Thanks for offering, but he's hungry Lance, unless you've suddenly developed the ability to produce milk, I don't think there's much you can do," she says drily. "Besides, I'm already out of bed." She circles the bed to his side and leans down to press a kiss to his mouth, murmuring against his lips, "Go back to sleep, I've got this."

-o-

He finds her in the nursery nestled in the old rocking chair that his grandmother had insisted they have. The soft glow of the lamp casts warm shadows on the wooden floors, throwing her features into relief. She's rocking their son gently, humming a wordless lullaby as he suckles contentedly, a tiny hand emerging from his swaddle to splay across her breast. She strokes his hand, trailing a gentle finger over miniature fingernails, up the dinosaur-patterned swaddling cloth to trace the curve of a small, perfectly-formed ear. She's smiling, her eyes following her finger in awe, and he leans in the doorway for a moment thinking back on their arguments and fights and near-deaths, wondering how they could have _ever _gotten here. She looks up when he nears, her eyes darting to the doorway and back to him, telling him she'd known he was standing and watching them all along. He grins with a shake of his head; she always knew when he was coming, and he'd long since given up trying to surprise or scare her. He draws up a chair beside her, and they gaze upon their baby quietly. "You got up," she says softly after a moment.

He curls his fingers around the back of her neck, thumb rubbing circles into her skin, and she leans into his touch. "Figured it's only fair to suffer with you," he smiles, nuzzling her cheek. "And I didn't want to miss this," he says, gesturing to the baby. He pulls away after a moment to look at her in mock amazement. "Who would've thought it? The hell-beast spawned a child," he announces, as melodramatically as he can while keeping his voice down. She rolls her eyes, a grin curving the edges of her lips. "Yeah, turns out interspecies relationships aren't so bad after all huh?"

He stares at her guiltily with his jaw agape and huffs about how _none of the team can be trusted to keep their mouths shut _and _that was a long time ago sweetheart_ and how he's _definitely_ going to tell Mack's ex that he, in fact, _loathed _quinoa- "Actually Lance, this one was Skye, not Mack-" when the baby shifts, smacking and pursing little bowed lips in satisfaction, tiny hand coming up to brush over a rosy cheek. Lance stops mid-rant, completely captivated by the child snuggling against her chest. "Look what we made, Bob," he breathes, circling an arm around her shoulders to ghost over the wispy hairs on his son's head. She turns to him, and he stares down in wonderment before looking up at her in awe.

"Look what we made."

* * *

**A/n:  
****progeny, **_n  
_offspring

*Clint, as in Clint Barton, Bobbi's ex (husband; in my HC she was married to Clint first before Hunter appeared in her life), who's deaf.  
(This is comic canon.)

Based on a tumblr prompt, "when the baby cries", and using this to fill a word prompt "progeny" from LaughingLadybug back in Feb and Apr. Sorry it took so long! :(


	33. hush, v

**hush, **_v_

Lance can feel the muscles in his legs pinching painfully, but the spasming discomfort is preferable to what he'll have to face if he leaves the small, cramped space, so he grits his teeth and starts playing Candy Crush to distract himself, trying not to go blind from the screen that seems particularly bright in the dark. He's had to start right from Level 1 again, since the last time he argued with her, he'd thrown his phone in a fit of rage and his aim was real shitty (or really good), because it flew out the window and didn't survive the fall. And he'd been been at Level 733, dammit. He huffs in annoyance as the bombs in the game go off, leaving him with zero lives and absolutely nothing to do– he didn't really enjoy the other games Bobbi had downloaded onto his phone.

Outside, he can hear shrieks of high-pitched laughter and the pattering of little feet running up and down the stairs. He smiles to himself, matching the petulant whining and indignant yelling to each of his nephews and nieces. Somewhere, he hears a woman's voice and the eager shouts of the children in response. Not long later, a voice (Sara's, he thinks) starts counting "1…2…3…" loudly and he figures they're probably playing hide-and-seek this time.

It takes him a good five minutes (which he spends mentally going through all the best hide-outs in his childhood home) before he realises with growing horror that _shit_, his wife was smarter than he thought, and that he _really _had to stop underestimating her– by making the kids play hide-and-seek, she was basically sending little spies all over the house to dig him out of his hidey-hole, while not having to lift a finger; he had counted on the house being too big and old and dusty for her to search for him, but he'd _obviously_underestimated her. He crouches as small as he can against the back of the tiny, unobstrusive cupboard, but there's really not much space to hide–once someone moved the rubbish he'd placed in front of the cupboard and managed to pry open the doors, his game was up.

He crosses his fingers and scrunches his face up praying that no one else knows of this particular hidey-hole, but of _course _his sister would have told her precious angel about this spot, just like _she _used to steal it whenever they played hide-and-seek as children, and it doesn't take very long before little hands scrape the doors open and he's forced to fling an arm across his eyes from the sudden light. Before he can say 'shh, I'm hiding', she exclaims loudly. "Uncle Lance! You're playing too!"

Little voices carry far, and quick footsteps run down the basement stairs. Too late, it's over. He groans in defeat, shuffling out of the cupboard on his derriere, hands massaging his calves, eyes still squeezed shut. "Bethany, I think your uncle might want this spot to himself," says a familiar amused voice, and Lance groans even more loudly and presses his forehead to his knees. The girl heaves a dramatic sigh and drags her feet back up the steps in search of another spot.

The basement door creaks shut and the silence stretches on. The only reason he knows he's not alone is the faint sound of her breathing in front of him. Also, after what he told his mum, there's no way she would let him off easy. He opens his eyes slowly to a pair of familiar knee-high boots, raises his head cautiously– foot tapping against the floor, folded arms, tense shoulders– yeap, he doesn't have to look at her face to know it's his best interests to run fast and far before the full weight of her wrath–

"You told your mother I'm _what?!_"

* * *

**A/n:  
****hush, **_v  
_make someone be quiet or stop talking; to be quiet

Based on the tumblr prompt: "Shh, I'm hiding".

Realised I posted a few stories on tumblr that I haven't posted on here or AO3, so here you go :)

AND! I posted a new story, a short multi-chapter fic (in progress), do take a look! Title: Things You Said.


	34. pine, v

**pine, **_v_

Dear Lance,

I haven't seen you in one hundred and seven days. It's almost Christmas. I miss you.

Do you remember last Christmas? You dragged me out to iceskate even though I was exhausted and pissed as hell, you insisted it would be fun. We landed on our asses so often our butts went numb. But we laughed. We laughed. I haven't laughed in a while, there hasn't been anything much worth laughing about.

I forgot my beanie, and was too proud and lazy to go back in to find it. You pulled yours off to give to me even though your ears immediately turned red and you got a headache afterward, and then we argued for fifteen minutes about, I don't even know anymore, probably something to do with me being able to take care of myself. Then you yanked it on over my eyes and kissed me and asked me to 'just shut up for once and let me take care of you'.

Today I walked down the street and saw a man pull off his scarf and give them to the woman beside him. She took it and beamed, and they both looked so happy.

I wonder if I had just shut up and smiled a bit more, if we would have worked. I wonder that, a lot.

-o-

Dear Lance,

Merry Christmas.

I went to my brother's today for Christmas. It's been a while, now I have a little nephew and a little niece and another one on the way. You would have loved them.

Remember how I said I never wanted kids after we watched that woman give birth in that half-collapsed building in Mexico? You just laughed and kissed me and said I would change my mind. You were right:

I watched my nephew Ethan run around the tree dressed as a little Santa, and for a moment I imagined a little you running around. He'd be all grumpy and sullen in his little Christmas hat, until I kissed him all over his little face, and he'd break into a smile with dimples he got from you. I wonder how we would be spending Christmas this year, if I hadn't lost him. I'm sorry.

I never did get to tell you– we would have had a boy.

-o-

Dear Lance,

I started seeing someone a while ago. We had our first huge argument today, and you know, I always thought I'd grown from our divorce, become a better person, more mature and all that. Guess what? I reacted the same way to him as I did to you, and I was _horrified_. I'm basically still the same person I was when we divorced, and I… I don't know what to do. I don't know how to be _better_.

I miss you, I miss arguing with you, but then I realise– or remember, rather– that I'm no good for you, that I haven't changed in almost two years, damn it– and it's a good thing you're far away from me now. And then I miss you again, and the cycle repeats.

Oh, and I broke up with him. Turns out, I can't have an argument with a man without wishing it were with you. How's that for irony?

-o-

Dear Lance,

I thought I saw you on the street today. You were with a petite brunette with large eyes, and she was smiling at you making faces at a baby in a pram.

Is it funny that my first thought was, _he doesn't love you, he likes tall blondes?_

But that was quickly followed up by _that could have been us._

_That could have been us._ I couldn't help the litany then, and I can't help it now, and it's driving me crazy. Now I realise the attraction you found in bottles– I wish I had understood it, and what it'd meant, earlier.

_That could have been us._

-o-

Lance,

Turns out it's not a good idea to get drunk while you have access to the SHIELD database. But I can't say how relieved I was to realise you aren't married, aren't cohabiting, and don't have a child.

I keep thinking I see you around, I think I'm going mad.

I miss you.

-o-

Dear Lance,

Did you know I was in the car beside yours at the drive-in movie today? I was pissed that someone took our spot until I realised it was you. I have no idea what the movie was about, I spent the whole time watching you.

You were oblivious, like you always were. I can't believe you actually watched the movie, I don't think we ever reached the credits– I'm sure you tossed my favourite bra out the window that last time, I never found it.

You looked tired. I wish I had the courage to climb into your car, say hello. Start again.

I'm trying so hard not to think about what you coming here and parking in our spot means.

-o-

Dear Lance,

I found flowers and a note at my door today. It said 'Give me more credit. 7pm.'

I guess you noticed me staring, after all.

I can't wait.

* * *

**A/n:  
****pine, **_v  
_to miss or long for

Based on the tumblr prompt: "things you said to me in a letter".

Two chapters in a day! Mostly because I realised I have posts on tumblr I haven't posted on here or AO3.

ICYMI, I started a new short multi-chapter fic (in progress), if you thought this hurt, check that one out :P Title: Things You Said.


	35. goad, v

**goad, **_v_

"No. Absolutely not, Lance." She takes one look at the steep drop of the vert and folds her arms, glaring at him, feet anchored firmly on the ground. "If you want to do it so much, go ahead and do it yourself. I'll stay here and watch."

He tugs at her arms. "Come on Bobbi, it'll be fun!" he wheedles, eyes shining with excitement. "The adrenaline rush, the thrill... They say it feels like flying!"

"I _have_ flown," she says testily, "and excuse me if I don't feel like engaging in things that could get me killed."

He stares at her incredulously for a moment— they were spies in a secret agency, fought for sport, regularly threw themselves into dangerous situations with abandon, and she didn't want to engage in _this_? She sees the look on his face and huffs, "You know what I mean." It takes a few more minutes of cajoling before she acquiesces, "just to shut you up Hunter. If I break something or end up paralysed, it's on you" before she stalks off irritably to get fitted for a helmet and safety guards.

-o-

He teeters on the edge, helmet uncomfortably tight and starting to itch. He glances down— a mistake, because the drop looked about ten feet high before levelling out, and—

"I told you," she says cockily into his ear. "Let's go, we can do something normal like—"

He doesn't let her finish, doesn't want to hear her 'I told you so', and throws himself off the coping on an inhale, and his first thought is _Shit, I'm going to die_. The air rushes out of his lungs and he prays and begs and pleads that his feet will somehow remain on the board— how did people do it?!— and that he won't break his neck, _she'll never let me live it down_, he thinks.

Moments later he miraculously finds his feet curving up the transition at the opposite end of the half-pipe ramp and lets his body move accordingly, arms spread wide. He risks a glance up at her, and she's staring at him in shock, mouth agape, leaning forward on the deck, arms slightly outstretched as if she could catch him. He grins cheekily at her, _see, it's not scary at all, _and it's his second mistake, because he trips and stumbles off the board and ends up sprawled face down on the flat bottom.

-o-

He holds his shirt up to his nose to stem the bleeding. "Bob, come on!" he yells, voice muffled by the shirt. He's been shouting across the ramp trying to coax her into taking the leap for the past five minutes (which is longer than it sounds), and far from being frustrated, he's actually enjoying it— Bobbi was always the one jumping into things and trying to persuade _him, _so this was a nice change; he fully intended to hold it over her head afterward— but there were other people waiting to use the ramp and they were looking pretty frustrated, so he goes for the one thing he knows will get her to jump.

"You're not _scared_, are you?"

Her eyes narrow and jaw tightens, and she knows it's just a ploy to goad her into doing this _stupid _stunt— at least when she dived into situations for SHIELD she had a good reason. This was just plain _stupid; _that idiot man had already broken his nose, she didn't want to have hers broken for nothing. She doesn't know why his provocation works, she's not usually this irrational and can normally just brush off these things, but it's _Hunter, _and he gets on her _nerves; _she knows by now that whenever he's involved, she throws all rationality out the window.

She both hates and loves him for it.

She contemplates telling him she's pregnant just to get out of it, but that would land her in a bigger mess because once he had babies on the brain, it would take a few months for him to stop wanting to impregnate her, and she doesn't think she can withstand months of those puppy eyes again.

So she utters a quick prayer and tips her board over the coping at the edge.

Her breath escapes in a gasp and her stomach plunges alarmingly, and for the few moments while she flies down the vertical wall, she understands why people said it feels like flying. Her body picks up speed as it streaks down the curve of the transition and along the flat bottom, and a smile spreads across her face as the momentum takes her up the opposite transition.

-o-

"Ah— ouch!" He taps his nose gingerly after she snaps it back in place, tucking the bloodied shirt under his arm. "You could've been gentler," he protests, and she snorts. "If you wanted gentle, you shouldn't have picked _skateboarding_ for a date. I don't even know how you persuaded them to let us try out that death-defying ramp, we have no experience at all—"

"I just told them we did," he interjects, shrugging. "I wasn't thinking."

"No shit," she deadpans, wiping a drop of blood off his cheek. "Come on, let's get you home, that's gonna swell." He slides an arm around her waist and she bats it away, _your hands are still bloody Hunter, get your hands off me. _She stalks ahead before he can try it again, muttering under her breath.

"I _really _need to stop letting him plan dates."

* * *

**A/n:  
****goad, **_v  
_provoke or annoy someone to stimulate an action

Based on the tumblr prompt: "things you said when we were both on opposite sides".

Lancebob go skateboarding! All the strange terms (e.g. vert, coping, transition, flat bottom) are for a half-pipe ramp, google if you need a mental image :)

Random and somewhat plotless though, sorry :(


	36. choke, v

**choke, **_v_

"You _what?"_

She gapes as Mack paces the length of the garage, panic spiking her pulse. "I don't know what happened," he growls, rubbing his head in frustration, "I couldn't control myself– he came in asking questions and before I knew it–"

"Where is he. _Where is he Mack,"_ she interjects, fisting her hands by her side to keep them from trembling, to stop herself from throwing a punch at her friend. She knows that mind-control can do a pretty number, she's been there before herself, and she knows Mack hasn't recovered from the alien city and it wasn't entirely his fault, but despite her efforts, her voice is laced with anger and threat and barely concealed panic.

Mack can't bring himself to reply, and instead gestures to a nondescript storage door at the back of the garage, his other hand pinching the bridge of his nose. She throws him a glare and almost runs to the door, only managing to stop herself with the reminder that Mack was still in the room. She doesn't let herself dwell on _why _she doesn't want Mack– or anyone, for that matter– to know exactly how much Lance means to her. She barely hears the pained apology Mack calls after her.

Her hand hesitates over the knob. He was still unconscious, or else he would've made a ruckus in there, and she doesn't know which is worse: seeing him in that state, or demanding answers that she couldn't give. Again. The door creaks open, and her breath escapes her lungs on a long exhale. "Mack, what did you do."

She pulls the door shut before kneeling by his still body on the dusty floor, wincing as her eyes adjust to the dark and she takes in his awkward posture and cuffed hands. "You didn't have to cuff him Mack," she mutters under her breath, yet knowing that given Lance's propensity for angry violence when he found out he'd been lied to, this was a reasonable course of action. She nudges the cuffs up to feel for a pulse, moving up to his neck to check as well, just in case. Her panic abates at the steady thrum beneath her fingers, and she arranges his hands carefully, the jangle of cuffs loud in the quiet stuffy room.

_He's gonna have a hell of a headache and bruises to boot when he wakes up_, she thinks, pulling his body up so that his head is cradled in her lap. She traces the broad bruises along his neck, thumbing them gently. Physical reminders that she'd lied to him, again. _He's going to think I got close to him to use him, for intel, for backup, for…other things, _she sighs, thinking back to what he said about them just being 'a little bit of fun'.

"It's not true," she whispers, eyes tracing his face as she cups his jaw, his stubble scratchy and familiar beneath her palm. "You know it's not," she repeats fiercely, "You know I lo–" Her voice catches in her throat and she scrunches her eyes shut against frustrated tears. It'd been years since she last said those words, she had never been good with them. In her experience, proclamations of love were accompanied by betrayal and hurt, and were just that– words. Empty words that hinted at impending pain. She presses a kiss to his brow instead, ghosting her lips down to his. They were warm beneath hers, and soft. She lingers for a long moment, eyes squeezed shut, memorising how he tasted, how his lips felt. _One last, _she thinks, chest aching as she pulls away, part of her hoping she was wrong.

When she emerges from the room, Mack is waiting against the side of a black car. He watches her warily as she approaches, eyes full of regret and frustration and apology. She nods to him curtly, face a cold mask, having scrubbed her face of emotion. She'd left that with Lance in that kiss, hoping he'd understand and knowing he wouldn't.

"You're taking him to a safehouse." It wasn't so much a question as it was a statement.

Mack nods wearily. "We can't risk keeping him here. If someone finds him–" She cuts him off by turning away, moving with slow, carefully controlled steps. "I get it." And she does, and she knows– or can anticipate, at least– the consequences that this decision will bring and the subsequent fallout. She buries that ache deep inside her and nods the go ahead, almost leaving before she circles back. "And Mack?"

He looks up at her and she meets his gaze squarely, her voice steady. "Hurt him again, and you answer to me."

She feels his gaze on her back long after she leaves the garage.

* * *

**A/n:  
****choke, **_v  
_to have severe difficulty in breathing because of a constricted or obstructed throat or a lack of air

Episode tag: post 2x12. Based on a prompt from tumblr about Bobbi's reaction to Mack choking Hunter. Got this prompt a while back, and since I finally started rewatching the second half of season 2 (it was too painful to before), well.


	37. guise, n

**guise, **_n_

Lance lets out a low whistle as Bobbi holds up the scrap of black lace, nodding his approval with a wolfish grin. "Do I get a preview too?" She rolls her eyes, turning with a smile playing on her lips, and lets him follow her into the stall, his warm hands on her swaying hips.

He hooks the ends of the bra together expertly behind her back, _I don't only know how to tear them off, you know. _He lets his hands linger and drift over her shoulder to trace the edge of the cup, his fingers a hair's breadth away from the creamy skin of her breast, and looks up at her when she sucks in an involuntary breath. She scowls at his grin and smacks his hand away, placing her hands on her hips. "So I take it this passes the test?"

He drags his eyes slowly up her legs, and she has to clench her jaw to stop the shiver that runs through her body even though her veins flood with sudden heat. But then his gaze moves up to her hips... waist... breasts... She nearly bites through her lip to stop from moving when he meets her eyes, pupils dark and ravenous, promising something more. She swallows and nods once, turning round to escape the heat of his gaze, but he spins her back around, hands hot on her flesh, matching the fire beneath her skin that twists and twists in her belly. He nibbles her earlobe, hands splayed on her smooth back, and nudges her legs apart, settling himself between them with a contented hum.

"Lance," she says, and it comes out more throaty than she'd intended. She feels the effect it has on him against her thigh and clears her throat, but her body betrays her like it always does when it comes to him, and her head tilts back to offer him access to her neck. She bites back a moan as he backs her into the flimsy wall of the stall, strong hands gripping the back of her thighs, and the next moment the door shakes with heavy-handed raps.

"_Hem hem. _Excuse me. No carnal activity in the stalls." The voice pauses in irritation. "There's a hotel just next door."

They burst out after Bobbi changes hurriedly, all elbows and knees, faces flaming red and giggling like teenagers instead of the dignified adults they'd intended- they were _supposed_ to be- and turn into the next lingerie shop in the mall.

"You know, you haven't told me why I've been given this _special_ honour," he hums fondly, thumbs hooked in the loops of her jeans as she holds up a selection of increasingly revealing undergarments. She averts her gaze for a split moment, smile faltering, hands dropping just the slightest inch, but it's enough. Lance lets go of her, and takes a step back, head in his hands. "No," he groans. "Bob, you didn't- No."

-o-

"No."

Bobbi holds up another hanger. "No." And another. "No."

She growls in frustration. "Hunter, you've vetoed everything in the last three shops! Will you only be satisfied if I go on the mission in granny panties?!" Her eyes narrow to slits when he actually contemplates it.

"...No. Too much leg, and your legs are..." He drifts off with a sigh and pauses for a moment. "Maybe pantaloons."

"What?" She doesn't even know what that is, probably some stupid made-up word that's a synonym for a full Hazmat suit that only her ridiculous ex-husband could come up with. Ex-husband, she wants to remind him, _ex_, but that would just invite a full-blown argument in the middle of aisles of sexy lingerie. She can feel a migraine building behind her eyes, the one she terms The Hunter.

"Pantaloons," he says with a thoughtful air. "Women used to wear them in the... I believe it was the 1800s. They went up to here," he points to his knee helpfully. "Those would be alright, yeah. Cover enough leg."

"Argh!" She slots the hangers back on the rack with more force than necessary. "I shouldn't have asked you along. 'Take Hunter!', they said. 'Maybe he'll be less upset!' they said. Yeah, right," she scoffs. "I'm not wearing goddamned _pantaloons_, Hunter. Listen, I'm going on that mission whether you like it or not, and I'm going to seduce that disgusting man whether you like it or not." She shudders, scrunching her face up in distaste. She picks a random bra set off the racks and turns back to him, a lashing on the tip of her tongue, but she softens at the expression on his face.

"Hey." She reaches for him. "I can take care of myself," she says, lacing her hand with his. She hesitates, not knowing if what she was about to say was appropriate or necessary given their ambiguous relationship. "I'm not going to sleep with him," she offers, and he looks up at her, looking more pained than she'd expected, the memory of the times she'd done all she had to for duty stark in his eyes. "You don't know that. You would, if it were necessa-"

She shakes her head vehemently, tightening her grip on his hand. "I won't. I promise," she says quietly, and she knows they're both thinking back to the promises she's made and broken, and hopes he'll believe she'll do what it takes to keep this one, this time.

Lance mimics her movements slowly but starts to pull away. "You don't have to," he mumbles, "We aren't-"

"I want to." She squeezes his hand until he looks back up at her, a forced smile on his lips, and returns the pressure.

-o-

He curls a hand around her waist possessively, marking territory he knows he has no business marking and not giving a damn. She doesn't stop him, turning to lean into his body instead. "I still want to see you in that," he says quietly as they walk toward the deceptively ordinary vehicle to head back to base. His breath is hot in her ear, and trails down the side of her neck. _You're doing that on purpose_, she accuses, a half-growl and half-whine she can't believe is coming from her mouth. She squirms in his grasp, and the low chuckle reverberates against her side.

She pulls away before she does something stupid like push him against the wall and maul him, and stalks ahead of him, throwing a foxy grin over her shoulder.

"We'll see."

* * *

**A/n:  
****guise, **_n  
_an external form, appearance, or manner of presentation, typically concealing the true nature of something_  
_

Based on the tumblr prompt: "things you said while we were lingerie-shopping".

Two updates in one day! \o/ to make up for being MIA the past few weeks- I have a few pieces in the works, just too lazy/ no inspiration to get them done. Soon, fingers crossed! :)

/edit 22/6: Hi guys, I took down the previous chapter (swerve, v; n) bc I was uncomfortable with it. My apologies if you liked it!


	38. lacuna, n

**lacuna, **_n_

He passes an alley on his way home, and strings of fairy lights are draped from one roof to the other all down the alley to form a canopy of dancing lights. He slows, taking in the lights, and his mouth twists in a half-smile. He remembers seeing lights strewn like this once, years since, and he remembers watching gold flecks of light and their shadows dancing on her golden hair and her golden smile and her golden dress. He remembers the way she would throw her head back and laugh, how her whole body would shake with laughter. If he closes his eyes, he thinks he'll be able to remember the music and how she felt swaying in his arms.

He gives himself a mental shake and walks on, the sky lightening behind him in purples and pinks and faded blues. He remembers the desire in her eyes before she would kiss him, and the split second of hesitance in them before he would kiss her. He recalls her myriad of glares with a chuckle, and running through his mental inventory of her death stares takes him all the way home.

It's been a long time since he thought of her glares, but not too long since he last thought of her. In recent months, he's thought about her, a lot. He puts the bottle of the milk in the fridge and folds the paper bag neatly, cracks two eggs in the pan, puts bread in the toaster. Mostly, he's thought about the things she taught him over the years, and the things he's taught the people he loves and the things he _wants _to teach the people he loves.

The eggs sizzle and he watches them carefully to make sure the edges don't burn.

He's learnt that you teach some things without meaning to, and you can't ever take them back. He wonders if she knows this. He remembers the first time his wife had yelled _I can't do this anymore! _and how he'd frozen up in response. Until that moment, he hadn't realised he'd learned that lesson from her, hadn't realised that he'd associated that with people– her– _leaving._

Later, his wife had told him that he'd grabbed her wrist, tight enough to bruise, and stared at her with a panicked desperation in his unseeing eyes. He never told her what he _was_ seeing: the first time _she _had yelled that at him and sent back divorce papers, and the second time she had whispered that to him while lying in SHIELD's med bay in hospital scrubs, and how she had packed a bag in the dead of night, limped out of base, and never looked back. No, he never told his wife that. There were some things she didn't need to hear and didn't need to know that he still remembered.

She never said that phrase again, though.

The toaster dings and he fishes them out, grabbing jam from the fridge and setting it on the counter. He lifts the eggs onto plates, giving himself a mental high-five when neither of the yolks break.

He's learned from Bobbi, oh, he's learned. And the lesson he's been revisiting the past few weeks is the one where she taught him that loving someone didn't mean they wouldn't ever leave you. That loving someone was not necessarily the same as staying. That maybe, people had different definitions of love, and that meant that each _I love you_ between two people– them– might not have ever meant the same thing.

Little legs toddle into the kitchen and a little hand tugs on his pant leg. He turns with a smile, hoisting the toddler in his arms. "Mornin', sweetheart." He eases the little thumb out of the little mouth and mimes a balancing act with the plates and the baby. The baby giggles, her first teeth showing, and his heart melts and aches at the same time.

He sets the plates down on the table and sits the baby in his lap, running a gentle hand through her curls, watching the way she smiled and laughed and looked at him. She was blonde, but the platinum of her mother, not Bob; she had a shy, sweet smile, not Bob's confident grin; and when she laughed, it was a quiet giggle and with a soul-piercing stare, with her mother's brown eyes, not Bob's blue.

He presses a kiss to her forehead, eyes drifting shut. She wasn't _theirs, _and she would never be, and some part of him still ached and longed for what could have been. He forces that part back into its box in a dark corner of his mind and makes a mental note to reinforce it with steel and _not to open it_, next time. He opens his eyes, and the baby is staring at him with large, trusting, brown eyes.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees the woman he married– and loves, he knows he does. He does. (He ignores the voice that says there are different kinds of love.)– draw her robe together and lean in the doorway watching them, but he holds his baby's gaze solemnly and whispers.

"I love you sweetheart, and I won't ever leave you."

* * *

**A/n:  
****lacuna, **_n  
_An unfilled space; a gap

Based on the tumblr prompt: "things you said with a baby in your arms".

Title is a word prompt from Jules3033.

I came up with this prompt, and when I did, I imagined it would be something sweet, or cute, or funny. Every time I saw this on my to-do list, I thought it would be, too. …Life never really quite happens the way you imagine it, does it?


	39. sanitize, v

**sanitize, **_v_

"Why should I apologise, I did absolutely _nothing_ wrong!" Lance throws his arms in protest, half-turning in an attempt to go back the way they'd come from. "Right, and I'm the Queen of England," Isabelle deadpans. She gives his shoulder a shove, staring straight ahead and ignoring his glare. "Move, Hunter."

"Iz. I don't want to see her," he tries again, "and I'm pretty damned sure she doesn't want to see me either."

"Neither of you want to see each other, we've established that." She marches down the corridor doggedly, this time nudging him along every few steps, and none too gently. "But Mack and Idaho and I– hell, everyone else too– we're sick of being your messengers and having to hear you two argue one day and have a cold war the next," she grumbles. "And then there's the angry sex– you two _do _know that the rest of us can hear you, right? If I recorded everything and sold it I'd be rich."

He has the grace to blush. "The ear plugs–"

"Oh don't get me started with the damned ear plugs! _No, _they do not work, or maybe if you two kept it down a couple of notches, they might. The rest of us need sleep Hunter, not your moans keeping us up." She smacks him upside the head for good measure, and he scowls, rubbing his head. "_My _moans?! What about _hers_, she–"

"Oh God, Vic _said_ this was a fool's errand, I should have listened to her," she groans, eyes turned heavenward. "I meant _both_ of you, not just you Hunter. Now shut up and _move, _and stop whining. I have a knife, and I'm not afraid to use it." Her hand tightens around the hilt threateningly. "I have a gun," he mutters under his breath, but he eyes her knife warily– he'd seen her use it before, and he'd rather not be on its receiving end. "You're bringing a _knife_ to a gunfight," Lance realises, and chortles at his own joke as Isabelle rolls her eyes, wondering for the _n_th time how Bobbi put up with him and having the wisdom not to say that aloud and provoke another burst of outrage from the man.

She walks ahead of him briskly for a moment, opens a door, and shoves him in, niftily taking his gun in the process. She waves it at him and nods toward the table, where Bobbi is already slumped at the table and resolutely looking away from him. "Just in case you try to kill each other. Bobbi's already been stripped of her weapons, so it's fair."

"_Fair?! _She can kill me with her _bare hands! _Remember that time when–"

Isabelle doesn't let him continue; from experience, she knew he'd never stop. So she cuts in with a big, forced grin and talks over him. "You two play nice, make up, settle whatever problems you have." She points toward a cupboard in the corner, "Cleaning materials are in that cupboard, disinfectant, soap, gloves, what have you." She makes a face. "Please clean all surfaces thoroughly before leaving." She makes to slip out the door, trying not to laugh at Hunter's gaping face– no matter how many times they'd been through this, it was still funny– when she remembers one last thing.

"Oh, and don't worry about making a racket, we don't mind your screams today if it means we'll get peace and quiet for the rest of the week." She ducks out grinning just before Hunter throws his phone at her head.

* * *

**A/n:  
sanitize, **_v  
_make clean and hygienic

Short Lance x Izzy one that just popped into my head (and sadly doesn't answer any prompt). I would've added Bobbi x Izzy too but Lance is more entertaining, Bobbi would grumble a little but not make as much noise I think. :P

Enjoy!


	40. off-target, adj

**off-target, **_adj_

There is a shift in the air by your side before a person lunges at you. Just before, but if you're careful, that buys a precious extra few seconds.

This is how she knows when she's about to be attacked, how she can react as if she'd known the person was there all along. People think her almost clairvoyant, a notion she never ceases to find amusing, but a notion she doesn't bother to disabuse- in her line of work, a little mystery was no bad thing.

Bobbi sighs. This was supposed to be a vacation, a break between two missions. Who was she kidding? She hadn't had a break in years. She pulls her hands out of the pockets of her thermal sweater, casually jerking up the edge of her scarf to hide her face. For ordinary people, a scarf in a fight was a disadvantage- too easy to grab and choke. But she wasn't _quite _an ordinary person, and if the way the man was barreling toward her without an inch of tact or subtlety was anything to go by, he wasn't going to be much of a challenge.

A brief wind- and then a warm, strong arm slips around her waist- the audacity, she thinks amusedly- and there it is, a small sharp knife pressed into her left side, precisely positioned to inflict maximum damage with minimal movement. She moves to grab his wrist with her left arm, her hand slipping over his and a finger sliding into the heart of his palm, preventing the knife from moving a single inch in either direction. He grunts; she smiles- though to be honest, not that she puts much stock into her reputation, she's a little offended they would send someone as amateurish as he is to kill her.

She tugs his arm closer around her, and to all the world they appear to be a perfectly ordinary couple walking along the street. She feels about his wrist- strong, veined- and applies pressure to selected bones. They shift, and she catches the knife in her right hand and smoothly bends to slide it into her right boot. There's a small intake of surprise, and then the man chuckles. He's not the only one surprised- his laugh warms her, and that didn't happen often- but before she can think more of it, he speaks, breath hot against her ear, and it takes some effort not to shiver against him.

"They told me you were gorgeous love, but they didn't mention the height."

An accent- she hadn't expected that either, or to actually _like_ it. This man was just full of surprises.

She ignores him.

With his hand emptied of the knife, he's of no current threat, but she can't risk him grabbing a passer-by as hostage, and she doesn't know how unhinged he is or how desperate he is to kill her. So she keeps his arm around her waist.

"You like me."

It's a statement, not a question, and not without some pleasant surprise in his tone. She can feel his eyes on the side of her face, and it bothers her that she still has no idea what he looks like- not that she was unobservant, but he came up from her back- and she can't very well stop in the middle of the street; lovers didn't scrutinise each other's faces in the midst of Christmas crowds.

No, they did that in the privacy of a bed.

She ignores that traitorous voice in her head and his non-question, just squeezes his wrist again.

The man winces, then chuckles again, letting his fingers stretch out to curl around her waist, thumb rubbing small circles into her side. She feels the heat of his hand through her clothes and grits her teeth not to react and sink into him, but doesn't shove him away; this position made it easier to snap his fingers if necessary. So she tells herself.

She leads them all along the main street, past illuminated windows and fairy lights, past shops with intricate glassware that flicker iridescent shadows onto every solid surface, past old-fashioned toy shops, past parents, past laughing children. It's only when she finally turns down two increasingly tiny alleys into a rundown barn that she finally releases a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding.

Her left arm slackens, releasing him from her grip; she's surprised and horrified to find that her arm isn't cramping like it should be, meaning that some time during their brisk walk, she'd loosened her grip on his wrist. She hadn't noticed, because he'd still held her as tightly- something she refuses to read into, maybe the man was just a pervert- and because... He'd somehow or other, with his warm, amused chuckles and accented commentary in her ear, slipped past her guard.

Yes, it was the accent. Definitely the accent.

She shoves him away with more force than necessary, and he stumbles less than he should have, laughing his annoyingly warm laugh, hands raised in surrender. They begin a strange dance, one step forward and two back, mostly borne out of her sudden strange unwillingness to hurt this idiot, until she's completely in the shadows and he's one step away from crossing over from the light.

"Who sent you?"

It's a genuine question; not many people knew where she was. Only one, in fact; she'd told Maria to keep her location a secret from even Fury.

"Doesn't matter love." He circles her, a gun inexplicably in his hand. "Hope you don't hold it 'gainst me," he shrugs a shoulder, "Orders are orders. I'm sure you understand."

She backs away, one hand on a stave strapped to her thigh. It would be all too easy to take him down. She could chart five different ways just looking at him, and all of them ended in him motionless on the ground, maybe short a few appendages.

"Just give it up love," he coaxes, "I'll make it quick, painless as possible. Promise. Scout's honour," he says solemnly, taking a step closer.

She takes another step back, wondering at her own hesitation. It was purely because she wanted to know his employer, she tells herself; to find out what he had against her, what he wanted. You catch more flies with honey, all that. She ignores the taunting voice in her head that reminds her that she has far more effective ways of getting men to talk than stepping around trying not to kill them.

Her hands leave her staves.

Then he's charging toward her, anticipating her feign-right-dart-left, and tackles her to the ground. One hand holds both her wrists in an iron grip above her head- he's stronger than his lean build suggests, she realises, not unpleasantly, and she's aghast that her thoughts have gotten so far. She lifts a leg and kicks out a knee that he'd just been able to plant in her middle, but instead of falling onto her and immediately rolling over to escape her clutch as she'd expected, he just falls with a soft oomph!, his chest against her chest and her hips under his hips and their legs sandwiching one another. His hand lands- of all places! In a fight!- on her hip, and she's surprised enough that for a moment, she just gazes back at him.

It's the first she's gotten a proper look at him, not from a sideway glance or from five feet away. Although, from three inches apart...

His eyes are chocolate flecked with bronzes and gold, and the longer she stares, the more they are blocked out by his dilating pupils. Refusing to blush, her eyes automatically dart down to his lips- a move she immediately realises is a huge mistake.

The Brit gazes into her eyes, and hell if she knows why she lets him continue to do it. She can feel her pulse picking up, and tells herself it's the adrenaline from planning to stick it to this idiot, but that's not how he interprets it. His lips- she is absolutely not thinking about his lips on hers... Or on other parts of her body- curve into a lazy smile.

"I knew you liked me," he drawls, ignoring her protest, his eyes finally darting to map her face properly. "It's a good thing too, because you'd have been difficult as hell to kill-"

"At least you got that part right," she interjects, glaring, but as usual he just laughs and ignores her, thumbs rubbing circles into her bare hip where her top had ridden up.

"No love, it's because I think I like you too- it's difficult to kill people you like." He leans down- why wasn't she pushing him away already?- and brushes those lips against her cheek, and her breath catches.

He shifts his weight to his forearms so that he's hovering over her, and she's horrified to realise she misses his warm weight.

He searches her face intently, and she finds herself holding her breath and wondering what it is he's seeing. She doesn't have to wonder long, because he meets her eyes again and his thoughts on her are written plainly across his face, stark and naked and raw and real. The vulnerability takes her by surprise- it's been a long time since she'd last seen heart-on-sleeve.

It's foolishness, suicide. She tries to scoff, to write him off. To ignore the way her heart stutters at the way he looks at her.

The left corner of his lips quirks up, revealing a deep dimple. "My apologies love," he drawls in that lazy manner, "On closer inspection, you're not the person I'm supposed to take out." He grins cheekily, looking down on her. "Not in the way that I'd like to, anyway." He winks roguishly, but his eyes are soft, sincere, the colour of melted chocolate. "What do you say I make it up to you for this," he glances down between them, his eyes lingering for a moment longer than strictly necessary on her chest, covered though it was- _pervert_\- and back up to hers. "Take you out for coffee? Dinner maybe?"

She growls and flips them over, exactly the same position only now _she's_ the one holding his wrists above his head, and _she's _pressed against a certain rod-like part of his anatomy rather than having it pressed _against_ her. It's purely to show him she could have taken him out herself any time. Really.

She ignores him completely. If she's honest with herself, maybe later on in the night, after a glass of wine or three, she's not sure exactly _how_ to respond to this man, either.

"Who sent you?" she repeats, tightening her hold. Her voice comes out all husky. _Shit. _She clears her throat repeatedly and glares daggers at his shit-eating grin.

The Brit chuckles again, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who was in his position. It doesn't warm her from the inside, his laughs and his eyes and his dimples and- no, he grates on her nerves. She grits her teeth, about to snarl some half-thought (idle) threat, when he stretches out like a lazy cat, pressing himself closer to her for a second.

Her eyes flutter slightly at his movement beneath her, and she has to force her lids to stay open and swallow, _hard._

"Have a drink with me love, and I'll tell you."

-o-

Years later, she still doesn't know why she said yes.

(Lance insists it's love.)

* * *

**A/n:  
****off-target, **_adj  
_off the mark; mistaken, miscalculated

For Sanctuaria, author of one of my favourite Huntingbird stories: Huntingbird, A History.  
Happy birthday babe! xo  
And stop it with the pain already before I shove this cake knife here in your gut.

Based on the tumblr prompt: "My apologies, on closer inspection, you're not the person I'm supposed to kill."

Changed it slightly to fit the story, hope you enjoy it! I like how the title sums up the whole thing so nicely heehee.

Apologies for the lack of posts lately, been insanely busy with work :(

Let me know what you think! :)


	41. bun, n

**bun, n.**

"What's this?" Lance looks over with interest at the envelope in Bobbi's hands as they round the street corner. "No idea," she replies, the start of a frown on her face. She turns the unmarked envelope over in her hands. "Simmons handed it to me this morning at breakfast, together with some sort of preserved sour fruit. Said it was from the routine check ups we did yesterday."

Lance nods. "But what's the deal with the fruit? Bit strange, don't you think. She didn't say anything else?"

The envelope isn't sealed, so Bobbi tucks a finger beneath the flap as she replies, confusion evident in her tone. "She said it would help with the nausea... Oh my god." Bobbi's hand flies to her mouth and she stops in her tracks abruptly, leaning heavily against a stone wall.

"What nausea?" Lance asks with a frown, not realising she'd stopped. "Bob?" He turns around and she's pale as a sheet, clutching something in her hand so tightly that her knuckles had turned white. The bottom falls out of his stomach and he strides back to her, chest tight with anxiety. "Bob! What-" She hands the small rectangle to him wordlessly, eyes following her movement, and the world stands still around them for a moment as they take in the image.

"Bob," he whispers hoarsely. He tears his eyes away from the black and white picture to meet hers, and sees his hope and joy and terror and loss reflected in her eyes. She nods once, lip trembling, and he steps toward her and she steps toward him and his arms close in around her shoulders, hers coming up under his arms, and they breathe ragged breaths and choke shaky sobs and hold each other for the longest time.

Bobbi pulls away first, eyes falling onto the sonogram still clutched like a precious gem in Lance's hand. He curls a protective arm around her waist, watching as she reaches a tentative, reverent finger to trace the small white blob, no bigger than a mustard seed, over and over and over. She swallows, and finally looks up at him. "Lance-" she says shakily, tears spilling, and he tightens his grip on her waist, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple as he tugs her into his arms.

"We won't lose this one sweetheart. Promise. We won't."

* * *

**A/n:  
**bun (in the oven), n (verb phrase)  
to be pregnant.

Found this somewhere in my google docs from way back, and since I haven't posted anything in a while...

Happy Thanksgiving! :)

(And sorry it's so short.)  
Tried to find a word more related to Thanksgiving, but eh.

I'm working on chapter 2 of Rinse and Repeat, it should be almost done. Keep your eyes peeled!


	42. turkey (day), n

**turkey (day), **_n._

"You just _had_ to sign us up for cooking duty. You just _had_ to."

Bobbi storms down the corridors of the Playground toward the garage, Hunter jogging slightly to match her long strides. Somewhere behind them, Daisy and Mack lean out the door laughing, while Jemma folds her arms and looks after them with concern. "Don't you think we should help them? It _is_ a lot to cook…"

The rest disappear before Jemma can volunteer them.

"How was I supposed to know how much cooking this involves?! Can't we just all order pizza and beer or something!" Hunter protests, thrusting an arm against the dashboard as Bobbi speeds out of the garage without waiting for him to settle into his seat properly. "And just a reminder Bob, if I fly out the windscreen, you'll be doing this on your own." He grins at the death stare she throws him.

-o-

"Alright." Bobbi shoves a cart at Hunter, who gives her a hurt look she completely ignores. "You grab the turkey, garlic, potatoes, mushrooms, and," she throws her list into her own cart with a frustrated sigh, "I'll get everything else."

Half an hour later, Bobbi is tapping her foot impatiently, glaring at the growing queues, when Hunter finally shows up. She marches over to him and glances into his cart, and it takes a significant amount of self-restraint not to punch or yell or _kill _her ex-husband.

"Lance Hunter." She flashes the icy, closed-lip smile that tells him she can't even be bothered to fake a winsome grins; he gulps.

"This," she holds up the offending item, "is a chicken. Not a turkey." She holds up a finger before he can finish his protest that no one will know the difference, and picks up the thing he thought was garlic. "This is an onion. They look different. They taste different." She turns the bag of onions around and thrusts it in his face. "This even _says_ 'onions', so I don't know what you were doing."

Bobbi growls in frustration. "Goddammit. Put everything back, I'll do the shopping on my own."

-o-

"I could be cleaning up the base. It would take three hours, and bam, done. Or I could be making hand turkeys with Daisy and Mack," Bobbi mutters under her breath, viciously but artfully mutilating potatoes before spinning around to another counter to whisk meringue. "_Hand turkeys, _Hunter. Do you know how much fun that is? Mack makes the best turkeys." She shoots him a glare and he backs away, bowl of pumpkin muffin batter in his hands.

"But _nooo, _you just had to volunteer to cook. What I find completely unfair is-" She pauses to pour the meringue batter into a piping bag and pipes it carefully onto a tray. "-people just _assumed_ I was in this with you just because we used to be married. _Used to be_!"

"C'mon luv," Hunter peers at his pumpkin batter and judges he's done a good job- the streaks of flour look perfectly artistic- and scoops it into muffin trays. "S'not so bad. You have to admit, it brings back memories of our cooking… _sexploits, _don't you think?" He sidles up to her with batter still on his fingers and wraps his arms around her waist.

"Did you just say 'sexploits'?" Despite her frustration, Bobbi feels a grin tugging at her lips. "You're ridiculous Hunter." She makes to turn around to inspect his mixing but thinks the better of it- she had worse battles to fight than undermixed pumpkin muffin batter.

"What? You know I'm right. And," he takes a nice long whiff at the nape of her neck, "you smell delicious luv."

"Get off me, Hunter," she shrugs him off half-heartedly, setting the potatoes aside and getting to work on the stuffing for the turkey. "We've got a _lot_ to do, and only until dinner to do it." Bobbi Morse never did anything half-assed, and even if she had been forced into a job, she was determined to make sure no one could do it better.

Hunter doesn't listen- not that she expected him to- and rests his chin on her shoulder to peer at her work. "That's a lot of stuffing for one turkey." He tilts his head to look at her, and she adamantly refuses to look at him. "We could have fun stuffing somethin' else?" he drawls, grinning as he notes her tells and tightens his hold around her waist. "Instead of stuffin' the poor chicken- _turkey_\- until it bursts…"

-o-

"I'm pretty sure it's not hygienic to do it in the kitchen while preparing Thanksgiving dinner," Bobbi deadpans, but still she smiles as Hunter scoops up the last bit of cranberry sauce from the slope of her breast with a finger and pops it into her mouth. She licks it off obligingly, laughing as his mouth finishes the job for his finger and makes sure her skin is squeaky clean.

"Well, they should've thought of that before assigning it to us, shouldn' they? S'really their fault, not ours." Hunter smiles and reaches over for a chaste kiss. "Mm… You taste like sauce." He grins at her, eyes twinkling at the innuendo, and returns to savour her lips. The kiss quickly turns more heated, and he pulls her on top of him with a soft moan. "Ah Bob, the things you do to me." His hands run up her smooth thighs as he looks up at her, and he's about to shift her into position when something catches his eye.

"Bob!" His eyes widen as he stares at something behind her.

"What?"

They'd locked the door and they hadn't heard anyone enter, so unless the kitchen had video cameras… _Oh shit. _Slowly, she twists around to follow his gaze, searching the corners of the ceiling. "Hunter, there's nothing there." Slight irritation tinges her voice; he'd gotten her worked up for no reason.

"Bob, the turkey's been _watching us._"

* * *

**A/n:  
turkey (day)**, _n._

Thanksgiving is a harvest festival celebrated on the fourth Thursday of November in the United States.

Random scenes came to mind, so... :) Happy Thanksgiving (part 2)!

Happy Thanksgiving/ Black Friday! Don't trample anybody. :)


	43. ripped, adj

**ripped, **_adj_

"Bob, you home?"

Lance throws his bag down and trips his way to the couch, eyes barely open.

"Hey," he hears from a corner of the room before there's a click-click of shoes on the wooden floor and a pair of leather strappy heels come into sight. He stares at it blearily for a moment, then follows the smooth lines of a long leg up and up and up.

His eyes fall on the frayed edge of tiny denim shorts, then on a sliver of smooth, tanned skin, and suddenly he's wide awake and sitting up slowly. Black bodice with gold thread woven in intricate spirals clings to a small waist, and as his eyes move up, they frame a pair of firm, round breasts.

Lance gulps, finally reaching blue eyes dark with desire. "Bobbi."

The blonde moves forward, all fluid grace, and pushes him back against the couch. One long leg steps to either side of him so that he's eye-level with her chest- and then she's raking her nails down his shirt and pulling it off him, tossing it over her shoulder. Lance hears a crash and they both start slightly, but neither of them tears their eyes away from each other.

"Hello Hunter."

Her voice, low and throaty the way it got after they had just made love, sends tingles down his back. Before he can respond, she's seated herself on his lap, straddling his hips and his rather obvious reaction.

His eyes fall shut briefly, a soft moan tearing itself from his mouth as his hands come up to circle her lithe body, mapping familiar skin and muscles.

"What's the occasion luv?" He opens his eyes, seeing his desire mirrored in hers. It's taking all of his self-restraint not to touch and taste those lips.

"Asshole ripped off the front of my dress on that mission in Paris." Sultry smile morphs into the broad grin he knows and loves so well. "Was gonna trash it, but figured you'd like it."

* * *

**A/n:**

**ripped, **_adj  
_badly torn

Saw the picture that Adrianne Palicki posted in support of brain cancer research (to purchase beautybookforbraincancer) and this just popped into my head.

You need to google the picture, she looks amazing!


End file.
